These are the soul's changes. I don't believe in ageing. I believe in forever altering one's aspect to the sun. Hence my optimism.

The mind is the most capricious of insects — flitting, fluttering.

Yes, yes, I'm coming. Right up the top of the house. One moment I'll linger. How the mud goes round in the mind-what a swirl these monsters leave, the waters rocking, the weeds waving and green here, black there, striking to the sand, till by degrees the atoms reassemble, the deposit sifts itself, and a gain through the eyes one sees clear and still, and there comes to the lips some prayer for the departed, some obsequy for the souls of those one nods to, the one never meets again.

My brain hums with scraps of poetry and madness.

I am in the mood to dissolve in the sky.

Yes, she thought, laying down her brush in extreme fatigues, I have had my vision.

If only she could put them together, she felt, write them out in some sentence, then she would have got at the truth of things.