Art is a journey into the most unknown thing of all - oneself. Nobody knows his own frontiers… I don’t think I’d ever want to take a road if I knew where it led.
It is not Winter who will kill me for I’ve been faithful to her always, seeking her in solitary places, the cold and dark welcoming to my lone soul. It is Spring who will kill me soon enough as the heat and tumult of change overwhelms the quiet that I need.This is okay, of course, but I will hold on if I can, even with a play to seduce Spring to me with the promise of wisdom I don’t possess and in which she has no interest. The closest we’ll get to this together will be laughter as breeze brushes new growth and I am made ready to feed it.