The artist, like the God of the creation, remains within or behind or beyond or above his handiwork, invisible, refined out of existence, indifferent, paring his fingernails.
...rapid motion through space elates one.
I will not say nothing. I will defend my church and my religion when it is insulted and spit on.
My words in her mind: cold polished stones sinking through a quagmire.
Let us leave theories there and return to here's hear.
If there is any difficulty in what I write, it is because of the material I use. The thought is always simple.