It's All About A War Of Social

For Many Years, I Have Been Moved By The Blue At The Far Edge Of What Can Be Seen, That Color Of Horizons, Of Remote Mountain Ranges, Of Anything Far Away. The Color Of That Distance Is The Color Of An Emotion, The Color Of Solitude And Of Desire, The Color Of There Seen From Here, The Color Of Where You Are Not. And The Color Of Where You Can Never Go.

Time Itself Is Our Tragedy And Most Of Us Are Fighting Some Kind Of War Against It.

Before Writers Are Writers They Are Readers, Living In Books, Through Books, In The Lives Of Others That Are Also The Heads Of Others, In That Act That Is So Intimate And Yet So Alone.

The Poet Marianne Moore Famously Wrote Of 'real Toads In Imaginary Gardens,' And The Labyrinth Offers Us The Possibility Of Being Real Creatures In Symbolic Space...in Such Spaces As The Labyrinth We Cross Over [between Real And Imaginary Spaces]; We Are Really Travelling, Even If The Destination Is Only Symbolic.

There Are Infinite Shades Of Grey. Writing Often Appears So Black And White.