Until Only Infinity Remained Of Beauty

Expecting Rain, The Profile Of A Day Wears Its Soul Like A Hat.

I Write With Experiences In Mind, But I Don't Write About Them, I Write Out Of Them.

The Winter Does What It Can For Its Children.

We Might Realize That The Present Moment May Be One Of An Eternal Or Sempiternal Series Of Moments, All Of Which Will Resemble It Because, In Some Ways, They Are The Present, And Won't In Other Ways, Because The Present Will Be The Past By That Time.

And Just As There Are No Words For The Surface, That Is, No Words To Say What It Really Is, That It Is Not Superficial But A Visible Core, Then There Is No Way Out Of The Problem Of Pathos Vs. Experience.