What have I done, dear God, to deserve this perpetual feeling that I'm almost ready to begin something really new?

I came to love, I came into my own.

And I rejoiced in being what I was.

Nothing would give up life: Even the dirt keeps breathing a small breath.

The soul has many motions, body one.

I'm sure I've been a toad, one time or another. With bats, weasels, worms...I rejoice in the kinship. Even the caterpillar I can love, and the various vermin.

Art is our defense against hysteria and death.