The Word Chrysalis Alone Is An Unmistakable

The Repose Of Sleep Refreshes Only The Body. It Rarely Sets The Soul At Rest. The Repose Of The Night Does Not Belong To Us. It Is Not The Possession Of Our Being. Sleep Opens Within Us An Inn For Phantoms. In The Morning We Must Sweep Out The Shadows.

Words Are Clamor-filled Shells. There's Many A Story In The Miniature Of A Single Word!

Irony Gives Us, At Little Expense, The Impression That We Are Experienced Psychologists.

Imagination Is A Tree. It Has The Integrative Virtues Of A Tree. It Is Root And Boughs. It Lives Between Earth And Sky. It Lives In The Earth And The Wind. The Imagined Tree Imperceptibly Becomes A Cosmological Tree, The Tree Which Epitomises A Universe, Which Makes A Universe.

How Is It Possible Not To Feel That There Is Communication Between Our Solitude As A Dreamer And The Solitudes Of Childhood? And It Is No Accident That, In A Tranquil Reverie, We Often Follow The Slope Which Returns Us To Our Childhood Solitudes.