The Seasons And The Years Came And

To Set One's Name To A Work Gives No One A Title To Be Remembered, For Who Knows How Many Of The Best Of Men Have Gone Without A Trace? The Iniquity Of Oblivion Blindly Scatters Her Poppyseed And When Wretchedness Falls Upon Us One Summer's Day Like Snow, All We Wish For Is To Be Forgotten.

No Matter Whether One Is Flying Over Newfoundland Or The Sea Of Lights That Stretches From Boston To Philadelphia After Nightfall, Over The Arabian Deserts Which Gleam Like Mother-of-pearl, Over The Ruhr Or The City Of Frankfurt, It Is As Though There Were No People, Only The Things They Have Made And In Which They Are Hiding.

I Suppose It Is Submerged Realities That Give To Dreams Their Curious Air Of Hyper-reality. But Perhaps There Is Something Else As Well, Something Nebulous, Gauze-like, Through Which Everything One Sees In A Dream Seems, Paradoxically, Much Clearer. A Pond Becomes A Lake, A Breeze Becomes A Storm, A Handful Of Dust Is A Desert, A Grain Of Sulphur In The Blood Is A Volcanic Inferno. What Manner Of Theater Is It, In Which We Are At Once Playwright, Actor, Stage Manager, Scene Painter And Audience?

Tiny Details Imperceptible To Us Decide Everything!

Human Civilization Has Been No More Than A Strange Luminescence Growing More Intense By The Hour, Of Which No One Can Say When It Will Begin To Wane And When It Will Fade Away.