A Picture Is Nothing But

I Live In Company With A Body, A Silent Companion, Exacting And Eternal.

We Work Not Only To Produce, But To Give Value To Time.

The True Wisdom Of The Philosopher Ought To Insist In Enjoying Everything. Yet We Apply Ourselves To Dissecting And Destroying Everything That Is Good In Itself, That Has Virtue, Albeit The Virtue There Is In Mere Illusions. Nature Gives Us This Life Like A Toy To A Weak Child. We Want To See How It All Works; We Break Everything. There Remains In Our Hands, And Before Our Eyes, Stupid And Opened Too Late, The Sterile Wreckage, Fragments That Will Not Again Make A Whole. The Good Is So Simple.

Everyone Knows That Yellow, Orange, And Red Suggest Ideas Of Joy And Plenty. I Can Paint You The Skin Of Venus With Mud, Provided You Let Me Surround It As I Will.

[photography Is] In Some Ways False Just Because It Is So Exact.