If there's a reason for the way that life is I'd like to find it. After all, who's life is it?
I drank the silence of God from a spring in the woods.
Shuddering under the autumn stars, each year, the head sinks lower and lower.
Silently, God opens his golden eyes over the place of skulls.
The near stillness recalls what is forgotten, extinct angels.
I do not have easy days at home now and I drift between fear and helplessness in sunny rooms where it is unspeakably cold. Strange shudders of transformation, bodily experienced to the point of vulnerability, visions of mysteries until the certainty of having died, ecstasies to the point of stony petrifaction, and a continuation of dreaming sad dreams.
Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.
Ultimately I live in the now with artistic creation, not what could or could not be in the future, if a creation appears timeless in somebody's opinion, it won't in others, that's not for me to guess.
By welcoming eager, talented workers, we expand America's potential for growth, and our competitive culture of invention and possibility.
You have to let your music be true and then people who want to adopt it as that, they take it on and they love it, and it changes their world.
The Earthlings behaved at all times as though there were a big eye in the sky—as though that big eye were ravenous for entertainment.