Pluck at the plumed leaves of cypresses: this is the

archaeology of being. In the paper valleys the olives

become acidic when you pinch them into oil and the

rich enigma of the physical world is etched again into

humanity. But roses always plead when you cut them,

and the soul always shrinks back from nonentity.

The musculature of painting resembles music or euphony

because it accompanies art in the reversal of despair

or the transformation of being into an old pair of boots:

you receive color in the dimensionless space of belief

without belief: the dimension of living and working

in the ordinariness of undisclosed symmetry.