There are many old and young ditches submerged inside me.
Creativeness declares: after death man descends in silence
from the mountains of words, and goes to silence smearing affectionate
fogs at the mountain-foot. Death makes man lone; art does him so.
So, art is a kind of death. During the days of gloom, I instantly
feel- the feeling of reading books under moonlight, and the choreography
of clouds behind the still sky. I have in my mind the moon-mystery and
the sensuous reality of shadow-works. When I stare at your presence, I see –
the river has erased her name from her chapter; adolescence has
removed the stream-scenes of desolation from the vast wilderness.
I become seized with panic. And then I look for the Eden of honey and wax;
I look for the prisms cultivated without any labor by the dead men who
keep on possessing the earth. I also look for their lost cards
because I have to recognize all these symbols as preparations
during the leisure moments of life.