I Think We Think In

A Mountain You're Plannin' On Climbin' Ain't The Same As The One You Ain't. It Ain't So Pretty.

How Vulgar, This Hankering After Immortality, How Vain, How False. Composers Are Merely Scribblers Of Cave Paintings. One Writes Music Because Winter Is Eternal And Because, If One Didn't, The Wolves And Blizzards Would Be At One's Throat All The Sooner.

One Cannot Pass By Without Thinking Of The Density Of Men In The Ground.

Power, Time, Gravity, Love. The Forces That Really Kick Ass Are All Invisible.

Trees're Always A Relief, After People.