We Fly; We Dream In

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.

We Fly; We Dream In Darkness; We Devour Heaven In Bites Too Small To Be Measured.

An Aptitude Test Established Architecture As An Alternative [career]. But What Decided The Matter For [teddy Cruz] Was The Sight Of A Fourth-year Architecture Student Sitting At His Desk At A Window, Drawing And Nursing A Cup Of Coffee As Rain Fell Outside. 'i Don't Know, I Just Liked The Idea Of Having This Relationship To The Paper And The Adventure Of Imagining The Spaces. That Was The First Image That Captured Me.

They Are All Beasts Of Burden In A Sense, ' Thoreau Once Remarked Of Animals, 'made To Carry Some Portion Of Our Thoughts.' Animals Are The Old Language Of The Imagination; One Of The Ten Thousand Tragedies Of Their Disappearance Would Be A Silencing Of This Speech.

At A Certain Fork In The Road Of Automatization, Europeans Chose To Have More Time, And They Work Far Less Than We Do And Get Much Longer Vacations. We Chose To Have More Stuff, The Stuff Sold To Us Through Those Beckoning Adjectives-bigger, Better, Faster: Jet Skis, Extra Cars, Second Homes, Motor Homes, Towering Slab Tvs, If Not The Time To Enjoy Them Or To Enjoy Less Commodified Pleasures.