A sickness ... defines margins, crystallizes the shape of things.

Here and there on the branch of an oak a congress of leaves still clung, rigid as flakes of bronze.

The snow again. White, white net of beauty, net of dream, trapping the earth, trapping the helpless heart of life.

But one had to go back to the beginning of things, always. Trace the thread of life - find the knot - untangle it.

Growing old was simply a process of drawing closer to that ultimate independence called death.

Religion is passionate, reckless, destructive, idol-smashing. It's a martyr burning at the stake. It's a crown of thorns and a cross.

Time passed so much more slowly than space.