I Was The Basest Of Readers. All

What Idiocy, To Racing Into This Story And Its Labyrinths, Sprinting Away From Our Happiness Among The Fresh Spring Grasses By The Oak.

Dearest Cecilia, You’d Be Forgiven For Thinking Me Mad, The Way I Acted This Afternoon. The Truth Is I Feel Rather Light Headed And Foolish In Your Presence, Cee, And I Don’t Think I Can Blame The Heat.

What Is It Precisely, That Feeling Of 'returning' From A Poem? Something Is Lighter, Softer, Larger - Then It Fades, But Never Completely.

The Moment You Lose Curiosity In The World, You Might As Well Be Dead.

It Was Thought, Perception, Sensations That Interested Her, The Conscious Mind As A River Through Time, And How To Represent Its Onward Roll, As Well As All The Tributaries That Would Swell It, And The Obstacles That Would Divert It. If Only She Could Reproduce The Clear Light Of A Summer's Morning.