You Were My Home, Mother. I Had

Whenever She Turned Her Steep Focus To Me, I Felt The Warmth That Flowers Must Feel When They Bloom Through The Snow, Under The First Concentrated Rays Of The Sun.

Beauty Was Empty As A Gourd, Vain As A Parakeet. But It Had Power. It Smelled Of Musk And Oranges And Made You Close Your Eyes In A Prayer.

I Think We're Starved For A Life Of The Senses. We're In The Garage, We're In The Car, We Drive To Work, We're In A Windowless Cubicle That's Gray And Beige. In A Way, It's Funny That We Consider Ourselves An Advanced Culture, Because People Who Live In So-called Primitive Environments Still Enjoy The Richness Of The Smells, Colors, And Sounds Of Our World. We All Crave That.

I Thought Clay Must Feel Happy In The Good Potter's Hand.

Panic Was The Worst Thing. When You Panicked, You Couldn't See Possibilities. Then Came Despair.