I Knew I Had Fallen

The Contemplation Of Beauty, Whether It Be A Uniquely Tinted Sunset, A Radiant Face, Or A Work Of Art, Makes Us Glance Back Unwittingly At Our Personal Past And Juxtapose Ourselves And Our Inner Being With The Utterly Unattainable Beauty Revealed To Us.

Dark Pictures, Thrones, The Stones That Pilgrims Kiss Poems That Take A Thousand Years To Die But Ape The Immortality Of This Red Label On A Little Butterfly .

A Writer Should Have The Precision Of A Poet And The Imagination Of A Scientist.

If A Violin String Could Ache, I Would Be That String.

We Are Most Artistically Caged.