In The Desert, An Old

It Has Been Said That Great Art Is The Night Thought Of Man. It May Emerge Without Warning From The Soundless Depths Of The Unconscious, Just As Supernovas May Blaze Up Suddenly In The Farther Reaches Of Void Space.

Nothing Grows Among Its Pinnacles; There Is No Shade Except Under Great Toadstools Of Sandstone Whose Bases Have Been Eaten To The Shape Of Wine Glasses By The Wind. Everything Is Flaking, Cracking, Disintegrating, Wearing Away In The Long, Inperceptible Weather Of Time. The Ash Of Ancient Volcanic Outbursts Still Sterilizes Its Soil, And Its Colors In That Waste Are The Colors That Flame In The Lonely Sunsets On Dead Planets.

I No Longer Cared About Survival...i Merely Loved.

If There Is Magic On This Planet, It Is Contained In Water.

Man Is Dragged Hither And Thither, At One Moment By The Blind Instincts Of The Forest, At The Next By The Strange Intuitions Of A Higher Self Whose Rationale He Doubts And Does Not Understand.