I Made Myself Into An

Last Night I Dreamed That I Came Face To Face With A Picture I Had Done And Forgotten, A Forest Done In Simple Movement, Just Forms Of Trees Moving In Space. That Is The Third Time I Have Seen Pictures In My Dreams, A Glint Of What I Am Striving To Attain.

I Think That One's Art Is A Growth Inside One. I Do Not Think One Can Explain Growth. It Is Silent And Subtle. One Does Not Keep Digging Up A Plant To See How It Grows.

There Is A Side Of Friendship That Develops Better And Stronger By Correspondence Than Contact.... The Absence Of The Flesh In Writing Perhaps Brings Souls Nearer.

The Liveness In Me Just Loves To Feel The Liveness In Growing Things, In Grass And Rain And Leaves And Flowers And Sun And Feathers And Furs And Earth And Sand And Moss.

There Was Neither Horizon, Cloud, Nor Sound; Of That Pink, Spread Silence Even I Had Become Part, Belonging As Much To Sky As To Earth.