I am the rest between two notes which are somehow always in discord.

Those doves below, the ones utterly cared for, never endangered ones, cannot know tenderness.

Perhaps creating something is nothing but an act of profound remembrance.

Life is cut to allow for growth ... one may vigorously put on weight before one fills it out entirely.

the knowledge of impermanence that haunts our days is their very fragrance.

But you, divine poet, you sang on till the end as the swarm of rejected maenads attacked you, shrieking, you overpowered their noise with harmony, and from pure destruction arose your transfigured song.

Now for some heartwork.