This was the universe about which we have read so much and never before felt: the universe as a clockwork of loose spheres flung at stupefying, unauthorized speeds. How could anything moving so fast not crash.

Time is the continuous loop, the snakeskin with scales endlessly overlapping without beginning or end, or time is an ascending spiral if you will, like a child’s toy Slinky.

There is a muscular energy in sunlight corresponding to the spiritual energy of wind.

The soul may ask God for anything, and never fail.

When I walk with a camera, I walk from shot to shot, reading the light on a calibrated meter. When I walk without a camera, my own shutter opens, and the moment's light prints on my own silver gut. When

Self-consciousness is the curse of the city and all that sophistication implies.

The sea pronounces something, over and over, in a hoarse whisper; I cannot quite make it out.

Nature’s silence is its one remark, and every flake of world is a chip off that old mute and immutable block.

The mind wants the world to return its love, or its awareness; the mind wants to know all the world, and all eternity, and God.

I think that the dying pray at the last not “please,” but “thank you,” as a guest thanks his host at the door.