I Have Always Come To Life After

What Man Of Us Has Never Felt, Walking Through The Twilight Or Writing Down A Date From His Past, That He Has Lost Something Infinite?

We Have Stopped Believing In Progress. What Progress That Is !

Art Is Endless Like A River Flowing, Passing, Yet Remaining.

When I Write, I Do It Urged By An Intimate Necessity. I Don't Have In Mind An Exclusive Public, Or A Public Of Multitudes, I Don't Think In Either Thing. I Think About Expressing What I Want To Say. I Try To Do It In The Simplest Way Possible.

I Will Pause To Consider This Eternity From Which The Subsequent Ones Derive.