Prometheus, thief of light, giver of light, bound by the gods, must have been a book.

The greatest of love letters are always coded for the one and not the many.

I do not know anything about Art with a capital A. What I do know about is my art. Because it concerns me. I do not speak for others. So I do not speak for things which profess to speak for others. My art, however, speaks for me. It lights my way.

Make no mistake, those who write long books have nothing to say. Of course those who write short books have even less to say.

...and there you have it, another body on the floor surrounded by things that don't mean much to anyone except to the one who can't take any of them along.

Do not wake me from this slumber, but be assured that just as I have wept much, I have also wandered many roads with my thoughts.

My hands resemble some ancient tree: the roots that bind up the earth, the rock and the ceaselessly nibbling wordms.