Jupiter, observed by Voyager 1 on March 1, 1979.

Water spirits were, by tradition, dangerously seductive.

“I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.”

Anaïs Nin

this vessel, this vessel is a lie, a shapeshifting beast, a lesson in fluidity.

I stand in the presence of the destroyed god

realm of chaos and old night

The worth of moments cannot be told.

“Oh, my ugly organs, how lucky we are.”

The Crane Wives, Ribs

“I must learn to love the fool in me—the one who feels too much, talks too much, takes too many chances, wins sometimes and loses often, lacks self-control, loves and hates, hurts and gets hurt, promises and breaks promises, laughs and cries.”

Theodore Isaac Rubin

“I wasn’t meant for reality, but life came and found me.”

Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

"We have met the enemy and he is us."

Walt Kelly, Pogo

“How strange it is. We have these deep terrible lingering fears about ourselves and the people we love. Yet we walk around, talk to people, eat and drink. We manage to function. The feelings are deep and real. Shouldn’t they paralyze us? How is it we can survive them, at least for a little while? We drive a car, we teach a class. How is it no one sees how deeply afraid we were, last night, this morning? Is it something we all hide from each other, by mutual consent? Or do we share the same secret without knowing it? Wear the same disguise?”

Don DeLillo, White Noise

“Chaos is caged in my chest. Misery runs through veins, guilt is growing in my lungs. There’s traces of ruin tangled in my hair, and wreckage wrapped around my wrists. I let the sorrows seep into my skin. Crimson red painted on arms, blue running from heart to head. I bury myself into bruises, and count cuts like stars. A rattled soul, a walking worry scrambling to carry the weight of a world. I dream in dread, speak in heartbreak. My existence is a fog, a memory burning just to get lost in the smoke. There is no difference between night and day, both are stuck on midnight. I’m waiting for a sun rise. But hope has fallen from shaky hands, got trapped in truth. I won’t see the sun when I’m stuck in a sky without a moon.”

Isabel Cabrera

"Making art is difficult. We leave drawings unfinished and stories unwritten. We do work that does not feel like our own. We repeat ourselves. We stop before we have mastered our materials or continue on long after their potential is exhausted. Often the work we have not done seems more real in our minds than the pieces we have completed. And questions arise: How does art get done? Why, often, does it not get done? And what is the nature of the difficulties that stop so many who start?"

David Bayles & Ted Orland, Art & Fear