For Me The Novel Is A Social

Some People Mistakenly Think Nature Is Very Nice And Benevolent And Never Betrays.

It's Evening, One Of Those Gray Water-color Washes, Like Liquid Dust.

We Shouldn't Be Saying 'save The Planet'; We Should Be Saying: 'save Viable Conditions In Which People Can Live.' That's What We're Dealing With Here.

They Will Not Let You Have Peace, They Don't Want You To Have Anything They Don't Have Themselves.

I Look Up At The Ceiling, Tracing The Foliage Of The Wreath. Today It Makes Me Think Of A Hat, The Large-brimmed Hats Women Used To Wear At Some Period During The Old Days: Hats Like Enormous Halos, Festooned With Fruit And Flowers, And The Feathers Of Exotic Birds; Hats Like An Idea Of Paradise, Floating Just Above The Head, A Thought Solidified.