Light Light The Visible Reminder Of Invisible

The Purpose Of Literature Is To Turn Blood Into Ink.

Because I Know That Time Is Always Time And Place Is Always And Only Place.

You Gave Me Hyacinths First A Year Ago; They Called Me The Hyacinth Girl.' —yet When We Came Back, Late, From The Hyacinth Garden, Your Arms Full, And Your Hair Wet, I Could Not Speak, And My Eyes Failed, I Was Neither Living Nor Dead, And I Knew Nothing, Looking Into The Heart Of Light, The Silence. Od' Und Leer Das Meer.

Here Between The Hither And The Farther Shore While Time Is Withdrawn, Consider The Future And The Past With An Equal Mind.

Sometimes Things Become Possible If We Want Them Bad Enough.