p. 39 The little scissors I am holding are
A dazzling synthesis of sun and star.
p. 40 Space is a swarming in the eyes; and time,
A singing in the ears. In this hive I’m
p. 41 Life is a message scribbled in the dark. Anonymous.
p. 43 Four hundred thousand times
The tall clock with the hoarse Westminister chimes
Has marked our common hour.
p. 52 Iph
p. 54 let a person circulate through you
p. 61 ‘Beyond that orchard through a kind of smoke
I glimpsed a tall white fountain – and awoke.’
p. 62 But all at once it dawned on me that this
Was the real point, the contrapuntal theme;
Just this: not text, but texture; not the dream
But topsy turvical coincidence,
Not flimsy nonsense, but a web of sense.
Yes! It sufficed that I in life could find
Some kind of link-and-bobolink, some kind
Of correlated pattern in the game,
Plexed artistry, and something of the same
Pleasure in it as they who played it found.
p. 63 Making ornaments of accidents and possiblities.
First off, I wanna make a picture of those exact lil synthesis scissors, n second I will work on further ornaments.