Gamblers And Lovers Really Play To Lose.

Frost In January Minus 20 For A Week. Dead Birds Frozen On The Branch—they Fall With The First Thaw Like Ripe Fruit—death-ripened. We Shall All End Like Them—just A Stain In The Snow.

It Is Not Peace We Seek But Meaning.

The Memory Of Man Is As Old As Misfortune

Sorrow Is Implicit In Love As Gravitation Is Implicit In Mass.

Somewhere In The Heart Of Experience There Is An Order And A Coherence Which We Might Purprise If We Were Attentive Enough, Loving Enough, Or Patient Enough.