“Perhaps you enjoy chasing squirrels, there is great pleasure in the quest of the unattainable. You and I know that wonder is the secret of bliss and that with reason comes the death of the beautiful.” – Okakura Kakuzo, in a letter to Isabella Stewart Gardner
Is this the very beginning or the very end?
Has the story been told, or is this the start of the telling?
It is the indefinable in-between – the latest of winter and the earliest of spring – the dying days of summer melded with the first flush of fall.
the shaded region between right and wrong
the gray area
in the middle
where artists dwell, and some intellectuals too.
There is no end.
There is just.
