There are times when the air that floats between mortals becomes, in its stillness and silence, as cruel as the edge of a scythe.

I am clever enough to know that I am clever.

As I see it, life is an effort to grip before they slip through one's fingers and slide into oblivion, the startling, the ghastly or the blindingly exquisite fish of the imagination before they whip away on the endless current and are lost for ever in oblivion's black ocean.

For death is life. It is only living that is lifeless.

To live at all is miracle enough.

I am the wilderness lost in man.

Noon, ripe as thunder and silent as thought, had fled unfingered.