No painting is more replete than Mondrian's.

Yes, light, there is no other word for it.

I try. I fail. I try again. I fail better.

What goes by the name of love is banishment, with now and then a postcard from the homeland, such is my considered opinion, this evening.

My work is a matter of fundamental sounds (no joke intended) made as fully as possible, and I accept responsibility for nothing else. If people want to have headaches among the overtones, let them. And provide their own aspirin.

But I know what darkness is, it accumulates, thickens, then suddenly bursts and drowns everything.

[T]he syndrome known as life is too diffuse to admit of palliation. For every symptom that is eased, another is made worse. The horse leech's daughter is a closed system. Her quantum of wantum cannot vary.