One gets to the heart of the matter by a series of experiences in the same pattern, but in different colors.

Myths are seldom simple, and never irresponsible.

Love is a universal migraine. A bright stain on the vision, Blotting out reason.

The butterfly, a cabbage-white, (His honest idiocy of flight) Will never now, it is too late, Master the art of flying straight.

Let all the poison that lurks in the mud, hatch out.

The gift of independence once granted cannot be lightly taken away again.

When the immense drugged universe explodes In a cascade of unendurable colour And leaves us gasping naked, This is no more than the ectasy of chaos: Hold fast, with both hands, to that royal love Which alone, as we know certainly, restores Fragmentation into true being. Ecstasy of Chaos