The White May Blossom Swooned

We Think We're Living In The Present, But We're Really Living In The Past.

When I Finish A Sentence, After Much Labor, It's Finished. A Certain Point Comes At Which You Can't Do Any More Work On It Because You Know It Will Kill The Sentence.

All Art At A Certain Level Is Entertainment. We Go To A Tragedy By Sophocles To Be Entertained.

How Flat All Sounds Are At The Seaside, Flat And Yet Emphatic, Like The Sound Of Gunshots Heard At A Distance.

Everything We Do Is Tinged With The Knowledge That This May Be The Last Time That We Will Do This, And That Makes What We're Doing Incredibly Sweet.