The rustling of the silk is discontinued, Dust drifts over the courtyard, There is not sound of footfall, and the leaves Scurry into heaps and lie still, And she the rejoicer of the heart is beneath them: A wet leaf that clings to the threshold.

I guess the definition of a lunatic is a man surrounded by them.

I desired my dust to be mingled with yours Forever and forever and forever.

What counts is the cultural level

America is a lunatic asylum.

Somebody said that I am the last American living the tragedy of Europe.

If a patron buys from an artist who needs money (needs money to buy tools, time, food), the patron then makes himself equal to the artist; he is building art into the world; he creates.