Consciousness of neighborhood. Meditation of trees. Clanging of the wake-up bell. Sheer weight of paper. Rough edge to my desk. Papercuts bleeding. Drilling in the street during lunch. Messages on voice mail; demands of email. More paper. Calculating percentages. But what makes sense? Chasing a sunset home. Consciousness of neighborhood. Twilight. A rose on the table. A single crimson-edged rose of sweet, from sweet C. A day.
Artists knock on silence for answering music. They pursue meaninglessness until they can force it to mean.
--Rollo May
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