It Is A Mistake For A Taciturn,

Wind Is The Loving Wooer Of Waters; Wind Blends Together Billows All-foaming. Spirit Of Man, Thou Art Like Unto Water! Fortune Of Man, Thou Art Like Unto Wind!

We Must Not Hope To Be Mowers, And To Gather The Ripe Gold Ears, Unless We Have First Been Sowers And Water The Furrows With Tears. It Is Not Just As We Take It, This Mystical World Of Ours, Life's Field Will Yield As We Make It A Harvest Of Thorns Or Of Flowers.

Painting And Tattooing The Body Is A Return To Animalism.

If Only These Treasures Were Not So Fragile As They Are Precious And Beautiful.

Everything Factual Is, In A Sense, Theory. The Blue Of The Sky Exhibits The Basic Laws Of Chromatics. There Is No Sense In Looking For Something Behind Phenomena: They Are Theory.