A Line Is A Dot That Went

I Cannot Be Grasped In The Here And Now, For My Dwelling Place Is Much Among The Dead, As The Yet Unborn, Slightly Closer To The Heart Of Creation Than Usual, But Still Not Close Enough.

It Is A Great Difficulty And A Great Necessity To Have To Start With The Smallest.

All Is Well With Me. The Rain Doesn't Reach Me, My Room Is Well Heated, What More Can One Ask For? There's No Shortage Of Work, Either.

Reduction! One Wants To Say More Than Nature And One Makes The Impossible Mistake Of Wanting To Say It With More Means Than She, Instead Of Fewer.

My Hand Has Become The Obedient Instrument Of A Remote Will.