I Had Always Thought Of Paradise /

Time Forks Perpetually Toward Innumerable Futures.

In All Fiction, When A Man Is Faced With Alternatives He Chooses One At The Expense Of Others.

Translations Are A Partial And Precious Documentation Of The Changes The Text Suffers.

Leaving Behind The Babble Of The Plaza, I Enter The Library. I Feel, Almost Physically, The Gravitation Of The Books, The Enveloping Serenity Of Order, Time Magically Dessicated And Preserved.

A Man Sets Out To Draw The World. As The Years Go By, He Peoples A Space With Images Of Provinces, Kingdoms, Mountains, Bays, Ships, Islands, Fishes, Rooms, Instruments, Stars, Horses, And Individuals. A Short Time Before He Dies, He Discovers That The Patient Labyrinth Of Lines Traces The Lineaments Of His Own Face.