1. The landscape can only be approached by means of what is empty in one self. I enter it by the headlights of content, then subtract everything from my surroundings that appears to have been illuminated. I know of no other way out of the pretense involved in the very act of looking. Difficult, isn't it, separating out the countryside from the service door you wish to enter?

2. The senses almost echoing in their abandon, it's limitless this calling between the pages and maybe experiencing something. But without the persistent desire to lift words from the tumult of coincidence, to tinker by voice with minor happening after minor happening, a certain melting pot of things would never be set to music, there would be nothing to call into. Hence the attraction of setting out to recuperate old visions, of selecting from orbs of one's own persistent translation, reanimating the senses, establishing unavoidable differences of meaning at decent enough intervals, like pylons, until, in this way, along this route and this route alone, the regimented views of the censorial apparatus at last become outdated, and not in the wavering lines of those old visions.