There Is Only One Real

A Holiday Gives One A Chance To Look Backward And Forward; To Reset Oneself By An Inner Compass.

Light Is Snow Sifted / To An Abstraction.

A Man With A Talent Does What Is Expected Of Him, Makes His Way, Constructs, Is An Engineer, A Composer, A Builder Of Bridges. It's The Natural Order Of Things That He Construct Objects Outside Himself And His Family. The Woman Who Does So Is Aberrant. We Have To Expiate For This Cursed Talent Someone Handed Out To Us, By Mistake, In The Black Mystery Of Genetics.

Is It Perhaps The One Necessity Of Love, That It Be Needed? And The One Great Human Tragedy That It So Rarely Is?

I Think That Passion If Really Intense Is Always Destructive If Not To The Two Involved, Always To Other People.