Even the automobiles have an air of antiquity here.

How slow life seems to me, how violent the hope of love can be.

My Autumn eternal O my spiritual season.

My blue mask as a God puts on his sky.

The domain of the imagination is reality.

Without poets, without artists, men would soon weary of nature’s monotony.

We cannot carry our father’s corpse with us everywhere we go.

I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer’s death.

Paint with whatever material you please – with pipes, postage stamps, postcards or playing cards, painted paper, or newspapers.

It’s raining my soul, it’s raining, but it’s raining dead eyes.