The secret, if one may paraphrase a savage vocabulary, lies in the egg of night.

I no longer cared about survival...I merely loved.

The great artist, whether he be musician, painter, or poet, is known for this absolute unexpectedness.

I love forms beyond my own, and regret the borders between us

It is a commonplace of all religious thought, even the most primitive, that the man seeking visions and insight must go apart from his fellows and love for a time in the wilderness.

We are rag dolls made out of many ages and skins, changelings who have slept in wood nests, and hissed in the uncouth guise of waddling amphibians. We have played such roles for infinitely longer ages than we have been human. Our identity is a dream. We are process, not reality.

In the days of the frost seek an minor sun.