The eunuchs at the entrance, looking towards a distant Snowdon,
crying by the lee shore as the sun breaks through the storm.

Wading, wading, wading. Why are we always waiting for the slow tide to turn?

There must be something more, beyond that endless sky.
All I know for sure is I remain unsatisfied.


Tell me, Pacioli, what lies beyond the horizon?
A tsunami of pure truth, ministered and stunning:

Have no fear, my brothers, for we have been made ready.
Here now, our ends will give birth to eternity.
Today, We are history!
Today We Are history!
Today, We Are History!

Beyond this life and free from this flesh,
We are the wind and the word!
Authors of our odyssey,
Heaven release me...

Now comes our victory, in the hands of the enemy.
And yet... as the moment consumes me, I am thinking
only of her.


Life is the task of love.
Love is the burden of happiness.

War is vital to the process of maturity.

The seeds of a brutal war are sown in the fertile breast of love.



The human race so divided by space - I've got my money on nobody, and I'm happy.

I like your colors, but your face is just ugly. And you smell funny.



A man in a pink shirt parts the sea in the gallery.
Everybody is silent, sullen, just watching.
Soon he wanders off... it's all so dramatic.

The man in the pink shirt meanders down the platform, crouches, and rummages through his shoulder bag.
You can tell he means well...

A man in pink pants rides the train from New York to New Haven, where perhaps he has relatives. Perhaps not.
But it's hot in the summer and the train has no windows. The poor man is visibly suffering, sweating profusely.