They Import And They Consume Reality.

As For Me, I Would Rather Be A Worm In A Wild Apple Than A Son Of Man. But We Are What We Are, And We Might Remember Not To Hate Any Person, For All Are Vicious; And Not To Be Astonished At Any Evil, All Are Deserved; And Not To Fear Death; It Is The Only Way To Be Cleansed.

It Seems To Me That This Whole Alone Is Worthy Of The Deeper Sort Of Love; And That There Is Peace, Freedom, I Might Say A Kind Of Salvation, In Turning One's Affections Outward Toward This One God, Rather Than Inwards On One's Self, Or On Humanity, Or On Human Imaginations And Abstractions - The World Of The Spirits.

Seagulls . . . Slim Yachts Of The Element.

If You Should Look For This Place After A Handful Of Lifetimes: Perhaps Of My Planted Forest A Few May Stand Yet, Dark-leaved Australians Or The Coast Cypress, Haggard With Storm-drift; But Fire And The Axe Are Devils. Look For Foundations Of Sea-worn Granite, My Fingers Had The Art To Make Stone Love Stone, You Will Find Some Remnant.

The Tides Are In Our Veins.