His Eyes Were Dimmed With Tears And,

The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

All Things Are Inconstant Except The Faith In The Soul, Which Changes All Things And Fills Their Inconstancy With Light.

What Incensed Him The Most Was The Blatant Jokes Of The Ones That Passed It All Off As A Jest, Pretending To Understand Everything And In Reality Not Knowing Their Own Minds.

Full Many A Flower Is Born To Blush Unseen.

Why Is It That Words Like These Seem Dull And Cold? Is It Because There Is No Word Tender Enough To Be Your Name?