A world of made is not a world of born
The snow doesn't give a soft white damn whom it touches.
The symbol of all art is the Prism. The goal is unrealism. The method is destructive. To break up the white light of objective realism, into the secret glories which it contains.
Unless you love someone, nothing else makes any sense.
The sweet small clumsy feet of april came into the ragged meadow of my soul.
The three saddest things are the ill wanting to be well, the poor wanting to be rich, and the constant traveler saying 'anywhere but here'.