Imagination—a surface design, on a quiet pool. It lies in my soul. Gently pressuring my soul to see only what lies in my soul, when looking at the world. Flowing freely to move my soul to see only ideal concepts— a twisted reality. Those ideal concepts are reflected on the surface of my imagination. There they remain, a part of the surface design, Filtering all of the world from passing into the flowing pool of my imagination—into my imagination where only ideal forms, from ideal images, are created. Only ideal forms are allowed or will remain stable in this liquid moving my soul; a soul is pure so must an imagination remain. It flows freely to move my soul to see only pure, ideal concepts. It lies gently to press my soul to accept only concepts of beauty, concepts of perfection, concepts of excellence—when looking at the ugly, incomplete, malformed, impure, cruel world. I love theose imagined, pure, ideal forms made up of the world filtered through the design of beauty, perfection, and excellence. Those ideal forms—they aren’t images any more. They have become real, solid—a twisted reality. I can love that reality, and nothing could be better. I can experience happiness, without any good fortune. I can love loving, without anything to love. I can be great, as ridicule stones the dejected spirit by which I live. I can flourish and prosper, as I wither away. I can hope for a future— as I die. Imagination—a surface design, on a quiet pool. Isn’t it wonderful?

November 1969