[in the true mad north] of introspection, where 'falcons of the inner eye' dive and die, glimpsing in their dying fall, all life's memory of existence.
Invent a new language anyone can understand.
Don't bow down to critics who have not themselves written great masterpieces.
I am awaiting perpetually and forever a renaissance of wonder
I'm reading a book about Romaine Brooks, a wonderful painter from early in the last century.
This is all very nice, because the ideas that Jack and the Beat generation stood for are needed today more than ever. But I'm not so interested in nostalgia. I'm interested in the future.