The mind can never be satisfied.
Throw away the light, the definitions, and say what you see in the dark.
Perhaps it is of more value to infuriate philosophers than to go along with them.
The genuine artist is never 'true to life.' He sees what is real, but not as we are normally aware of it. We do not go storming through life like actors in a play. Art is never real life.
The summer night is like a perfection of thought.
Complacencies of the peignoir, and late Coffee and oranges in a sunny chair. And the green freedom of a cockatoo Upon a rug mingle to dissipate The holy hush of ancient sacrifice