Deep In Their Roots, All Flowers Keep

Art Is The Means We Have Of Undoing The Damage Of Haste. It's What Everything Else Isn't.

Being, Not Doing, Is My First Joy.

All Finite Things Reveal Infinitude: The Mountain With Its Singular Bright Shade Like The Blue Shine On Freshly Frozen Snow, The After-light Upon Ice-burdened Pines; Odor Of Basswood Upon A Mountain Slope, A Scene Beloved Of Bees; Silence Of Water Above A Sunken Tree: The Pure Serene Of Memory Of One Man,- A Ripple Widening From A Single Stone Winding Around The Waters Of The World.

By Daily Dying, I Have Come To Be.

In A Dark Time, The Mind Begins To See.