I See Artists As A

The Steward, According To Custom, Had Stopped All The Clocks. This, In The Language Of Narouz, Said "your Stay With Us Is So Brief, Let Us Not Be Reminded Of The Flight Of The Hours."

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.

I Have Decided To Leave Clea’s Last Letter Un-answered. I No Longer Wish To Coerce Anyone, To Make Promises, To Think Of Life In Terms Of Compacts, Resolutions, Covenants. It Will Be Up To Clea To Interpret My Silence According To Her Own Needs And Desires, To Come To Me If She Has Need Or Not, As The Case May Be. Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?

Try And Travel With The Eyes Of The Spirit Wide Open, And Not Too Much Factual Information. To Tune In, Without Reverence, Idly -- But With Real Inward Attention. It Is To Be Had For The Feeling, That Mysterious Sense Of Rapport, Of Identity With The Ground. You Can Extract The Essence Of A Place Once You Know How. If You Just Get As Still As A Needle You'll Be There.

Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?