There Is Justice In The

Perhaps Things Are Most Beautiful When They Are Not Quite Real; When You Look Upon A Scene As An Outsider, And Come To Possess It In Its Entirety And Forever; When You Live In The Present With The Lucidity And Feeling Of Memory; When, For Want Of Connection, The World Deepens And Becomes Art.

I've Always Been Terribly Uninterested In Criticism. And One Of The Reasons, I Just Thought Recently, Is That You Know There Are Various Schools Of Criticism That Will Compete, And One Will Supercede The Other.

Why Do People Resist [engines, Bridges, And Cities] So? They Are Symbols And Products Of The Imagination, Which Is The Force That Ensures Justice And Historical Momentum In An Imperfect World, Because Without Imagination We Would Not Have The Wherewithal To Challenge Certainty, And We Could Never Rise Above Ourselves.

Whatever I Do I've Always Done Not Because I Want Something But To Compensate For A Loss, To Bring About A Balance, To Create Amends, To Make Things Right.

Winter Then In Its Early And Clear Stages, Was A Purifying Engine That Ran Unhindered Over City And Country, Alerting The Stars To Sparkle Violently And Shower Their Silver Light Into The Arms Of Bare Upreaching Trees. It Was A Mad And Beautiful Thing That Scoured Raw The Souls Of Animals And Man, Driving Them Before It Until They Loved To Run. And What It Did To Northern Forests Can Hardly Be Described, Considering That It Iced The Branches Of The Sycamores On Chrystie Street And Swept Them Back And Forth Until They Rang Like Ranks Of Bells.