Does Not Everything Depend On

Music Is Only Love Looking For Words.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.

Art—the Meaning Of The Pattern Of Our Common Actions In Reality. The Cloth-of-gold That Hides Behind The Sackcloth Of Reality, Forced Out By The Pain Of Human Memory.

Life Is Like A Cucumber. One Minute It's In Your Hand, The Next It's Up You Ass.

Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?