We Live, We Die, We Are Remembered,

I Dreamt That I Woke Up. It's The Oldest Dream Of All, And I've Just Had It

You Can Define A Net Two Ways, Depending On Your Point Of View. Normally You Would Say It Is A Meshed Instrument Designed To Catch Fish. But You Could, With No Great Injury To Logic, Reverse The Image And Define The Net As A Jocular Lexicographer Once Did: He Called It A Collection Of Holes Tied Together With String.

And If You Had No Tongue, No Celebrating Language, You’d Do This: Cross Your Hands At The Wrist With Palms Facing Towards You; Place Your Crossed Wrists Over Your Heart (the Middle Of Your Chest, Anyway); Then Move Your Hands Outwards A Short Distance, And Open Them Towards The Object Of Your Love. It’s Just As Eloquent As Speech.

And Yet It Takes Only The Smallest Pleasure Or Pain To Teach Us Time’s Malleability.

Not Merely Hope, But Any Burdensome Yearning: Ambition, Hatred, Love (especially Love) - How Rarely Do Our Emotions Meet The Object They Seem To Deserve? How Hopelessly We Signal; How Dark The Sky; How Big The Waves. We Are All Lost At See, Washed Between Hope And Despair, Hailing Something That May Never Come To Rescue Us. Catastrophe Has Become Art; But This Is No Reducing Process. It Is Freeing, Enlarging, Explaining. Catastrophe Has Become Art: That Is, After All, What It Is For.