The Middle Years

We work in the dark - we do what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.

He sat and stared at the sea, which appeared all surface and twinkle, far shallower than the spirit of man. It was the abyss of human illusion that was the real, the tideless deep.

He had done all he should ever do, and yet hadn't done what he wanted. This was the laceration--that practically his career was over: it was as violent as a grip at his throat.

The infinite of life was gone, and what remained of the dose a small glass scored like a thermometer by the apothecary. He sat and stared at the sea, which appeared all surface and twinkle, far shallower than the spirit of man. It was the abyss of human illusion that was the real, the tideless deep.