With The Inevitability Of A Tongue Returning

Witch, Do This For Me, Find Me A Moon Made Of Longing. Then Cut It Sliver Thin, And Having Cut It, Hang It High Above My Beloved's House, So That She May Look Up Tonight And See It, And Seeing It, Sigh For Me As I Sigh For Her, Moon Or No Moon.

The Paintings Of Francis Bacon To My Eye Are Very Beautiful. The Paintings Of Bosch Or Goya Are To My Eye Very Beautiful. I've Also Stood In Front Of Those Same Paintings With People Who've Said, 'let's Get On To The Botticellis As Soon As Possible.' I Have Lingered, Of Course.

Of Course It’s The Apparently Tranquil Periods That Deceive Us. Though Our Instruments Or Our Senses Or Our Wits May Not Be Able To See The Processes That Are Leading Toward These Clusters Of Events, They’re Happening. The Star, The Wheel, The Butterfly—all Are In A Subtle State Of Unrest, Waiting For The Moment When Some Invisible Mechanism Signals That The Time Has Come. Then The Star Explodes; The Wheel Makes Poor Men Rich; The Butterfly Mates And Dies.

Evil, However Powerful It Seemed,could Be Undone By Its Own Appetite

My Imagination Is My Polestar; I Steer By That.