Poetry Is As Necessary To Comprehension As

To Know Only Artificial Night Is As Absurd And Evil As To Know Only Artificial Day.

For A Moment Of Night We Have A Glimpse Of Ourselves And Of Our World Islanded In A Stream Of Stars - Pilgrims Of Mortality, Voyaging Between Horizons Across The Eternal Seas Of Space And Time.

Wolves Are Not Our Brothers; They Are Not Our Subordinates, Either. They Are Another Nation, Caught Up Just Like Us In The Complex Web Of Time And Life.

The Animal Should Not Be Measured By Man. In A World Older Than Ours They Move Finished And Complete, Gifted With Extensions Of The Sense We Have Lost Or Never Attained, Living By Voices We Shall Never Hear.

We Of The Age Of The Machines, Having Delivered Ourselves Of Nocturnal Enemies, Now Have A Dislike Of Night Itself. With Lights And Ever More Lights, We Drive The Holiness And Beauty Of Night Back To The Forests And The Sea.