Time Itself Is Our Tragedy

The Object We Call A Book Is Not The Real Book, But Its Potential, Like A Musical Score Or Seed. It Exists Fully Only In The Act Of Being Read; And Its Real Home Is Inside The Head Of The Reader, Where The Symphony Resounds, The Seed Germinates. A Book Is A Heart That Only Beats In The Chest Of Another.

The Magic Of The Street Is The Mingling Of The Errand And The Epiphany.

In A Sense The Car Has Become A Prosthetic, And Though Prosthetics Are Usually For Injured Or Missing Limbs, The Auto-prosthetic Is For A Conceptually Impaired Body Or A Body Impaired By The Creation Of A World That Is No Longer Human In Scale.

Hope Is Not Like A Lottery Ticket You Can Sit On The Sofa And Clutch, Feeling Lucky.... Hope Is An Ax You Break Down Doors With In An Emergency.

There Are Fossils Of Seashells High In The Himalayas; What Was And What Is Are Different Things.