I'll Do What Little I Can In

And Somewhat As In Blind Night, On A Mild Sea, A Sailor May Be Made Aware Of An Iceberg, Fanged And Mortal, Bearing Invisibly Near, By The Unwarned Charm Of Its Breath, Nothingness Now Revealed Itself: That Permanent Night Upon Which The Stars In Their Expiring Generations Are Less Than The Glinting Of Gnats, And Nebulae, More Trivial Than Winter Breath; That Darkness In Which Eternity Lies Bent And Pale, A Dead Snake In A Jar, And Infinity Is The Sparkling Of A Wren Blown Out To Sea; That Inconceivable Chasm Of Invulnerable Silence In Which Cataclysms Of Galaxies Rave Mute As Amber.

How Far We All Come. How Far We All Come Away From Ourselves. So Far, So Much Between, You Can Never Go Home Again. You Can Go Home, It's Good To Go Home, But You Never Really Get All The Way Home Again In Your Life. ... Whatever It Was And However Good It Was, It Wasn't What You Once Had Been, And Had Lost, And Could Never Have Again, And Once In A While, Once In A Long Time, You Remembered, And Knew How Far You Were Away, And It Hit You Hard Enough, That Little While It Lasted, To Break Your Heart.

The Artist's Task Is Not To Alter The World As The Eye Sees It Into A World Of Aesthetic Reality, But To Perceive The Aesthetic Reality Within The Actual Reality. (on Photographs By Helen Levitt)

The Mere Attempt To Examine My Own Confusion Would Consume Volumes.

I'll Do What Little I Can In Writing. Only It Will Be Very Little. I'm Not Capable Of It; And If I Were, You Would Not Go Near It At All. For If You Did, You Would Hardly Bear To Live