My mind was a blank. Withered trees, dusky crows, an ancient road, the west wind, a lean horse, a little bridge over flowing water: that lonely, wistful sadness mingled with a poetic sensibility and a spiritual yearning as delicate as grass. The crest of literary inspiration swept over me.
A dream is a mirror for the heart; a dream is a spring for painting. My heart paints my picture, and my picture reflects my heart. It flutters across my heartstrings, a cradle of hope, a garment woven from dreams.
The sea in my glasses, so deep and blue, stirred a longing for the ocean and a tender affection for my mother...
I have come into this world...
