WELL

I stopped to watch a bird in flight. It was flying, yet I knew it had died. The spirit had gone out of it.
In the place where the cathedral stood there had been once a living thing, so that there was no art to the cathedral, in spite of its beauty. It was empty of soul, merely form. There is no art in a dead monument standing where there was a wood once.
And in the place where a great city expanded over great streches of earth, rising to the sun and blocking its light, all that the senses could perceive amounted to nothing but a great roaring less meaningful than silence. And to all that construction there was no art, but the inkling of an idea. How can there be art in what is dead? Nor can an idea be other than imperfect by realising itself in materiality.
To that little amounted the cavilations and endeavours of men. The voices of angels are heard, and lead to vision, but they may not be projected into the world by visionaries, without becoming cacophony.
And all that your hand has done until now, rather than an expression of the splendour within you, is a pathetic projection of the unreachable. With your art, eroded by time, eaten by the wind, perish your prejudices, your vanity, everything you thought was meaningful and wasn´t.