Truth can remain silent. Lies must be spoken.
My nostalgia is for the impossible.
Boredom, not the will, is the mother of change. Necessity is the father.
Realism absorbs the ideal by adding a few small imperfections. Example: it paints a few specks of mud on the white gown of the Lady in the Garden.
A dense undergrowth of extension cords sustains my upper world of lights, music, and machines of comfort.
Narcissus weeps to find that his Image does not return his love.