there’s this disconnect between external image and internal experience; between society's appraisal of your status and activity, the lens of their specific criterion, and the richness of your experiential reality, where u feel u are at any moment in life, in the dusky blooming of the sun during some turning of the earth into a boundless dark, or the woods wreathed in an evening mist swimming past in ecstasy while you drive down a deserted lane; the ecstatic vibrations of new productions, the laughter echoing on an autumn air, tree leaves falling in spirals with such fluidity likening the air to water; forever spasms, the unreal real readily seized by sensitivity, the truth beyond all truths, the only thing that might be made still, utterly found within the yieldings of this transient space.
-Stephen Puckett Humphrey