Choices, More Choices Than We

Man Would Not Be Man If His Dreams Did Not Exceed His Grasp... If I Remember The Sunflower Forest It Is Because From Its Hidden Reaches Man Arose. The Green World Is His Sacred Center. In Moments Of Sanity He Must Still Seek Refuge There.

Man Is Always Marveling At What He Has Blown Apart, Never At What The Universe Has Put Together, And This Is His Limitation.

Over The Whole Earth- This Infinitely Small Globe That Possesses All We Know Of Sunshine And Bird Song- An Unfamiliar Blight Is Creeping: Man- Man, Who Has Become At Last A Planetary Disease And Who Would, If His Technology Yet Permitted, Pass This Infection To Another Star.

[on Common Water.] Its Substance Reaches Everywhere; It Touches The Past And Prepares The Future; It Moves Under The Poles And Wanders Thinly In The Heights Of Air. It Can Assume Forms Of Exquisite Perfection In A Snowflake, Or Strip The Living To A Single Shining Bone Cast Up By The Sea.

Nothing Grows Among Its Pinnacles; There Is No Shade Except Under Great Toadstools Of Sandstone Whose Bases Have Been Eaten To The Shape Of Wine Glasses By The Wind. Everything Is Flaking, Cracking, Disintegrating, Wearing Away In The Long, Inperceptible Weather Of Time. The Ash Of Ancient Volcanic Outbursts Still Sterilizes Its Soil, And Its Colors In That Waste Are The Colors That Flame In The Lonely Sunsets On Dead Planets.