Our bloom is gone. We are the fruit thereof.

The bloom is gone, and with the bloom go I.

Death is the mother of Beauty; hence from her, alone, shall come fulfillment to our dreams and our desires.

But ye have profaned it, in that ye say, The table of the LORD is polluted; and the fruit thereof, even his meat, is contemptible.

What our eyes behold may well be the text of life but one's meditations on the text and the disclosures of these meditations are no less a part of the structure of reality.

Reality is a cliché from which we escape by metaphor.