I Am Tomorrow, Or Some Future Day,

Too Excited To Be Genuinely Happy

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

Old Father, Old Artificer, Stand Me Now And Ever In Good Stead.

Hold To The Now, The Here, Through Which All Future Plunges To The Past.

The Personality Of The Artist, At First A Cry Or A Cadence Or A Mood And Then A Fluid, And Lambent Narrative, Finally Refines Itself Out Of Existence, Impersonalises Itself, So To Speak. The Aesthetic Image In The Dramatic Form Is Life Purified In And Reprojected From The Human Imagination. The Mystery Of Aesthetic Like That Of Material Creation Is Accomplished. The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.