It Is Only Through Mystery

The Devil...the Prowde Spirite...cannot Endure To Be Mocked.

Go Where We May, Rest Where We Will, Eternal London Haunts Us Still.

When We Relate To Our Bodies As Having Soul, We Attend To Their Beauty, Their Poetry And Their Expressiveness. Our Very Habit Of Treating The Body As A Machine, Whose Muscles Are Like Pulleys And Its Organs Engines, Forces Its Poetry Underground, So That We Experience The Body As An Instrument And See Its Poetics Only In Illness.

Earth Has No Sorrow That Heaven Cannot Heal.

Like Ships That Have Gone Down At Sea, When Heaven Was All Tranquillity.