. . .some average of the holiness in every person you have ever run into, consider this, something almost like a wall covered in green vines, an emblem for the spirit, or if not that, what happens when two lovers stand among bushes in a [...]
I find, after all these years, I am a believer— I believe what the thunder and lightning have to say; I believe that dreams are real, and that death has two reprisals; I believe that dead leaves and black water fill my heart.
Who has not thought of Johann Sebastian Bach—and please pronounce That good man's good name in German, whether you can or not—seated At the keyboard of who cares what delubrum in the splendor of his isolation Within the church of sound? The structure mounts, towers upon towers,