The lord of the island dwells on his isle, scanning the skies. In the past he bided his time in the mountains, yearning for the sea. A poor, penniless flower. Suddenly the candle burst, wax poured forth, and the flame leaped a full foot, forming a huge wick. So I trimmed it and did this painting.
Fish bear the water, water bears flowers, and flowers bear a fine family.
Sometimes we discuss people, or things, or news, or scandals, or beautiful women, or cannons, or novels, or egg rolls, or gods on high, or cash down below. There is nothing on which our words don't touch. One evening, getting fish from the sea, we salted them. Near the southern horizon, everywhere is empty and vast, occasionally birds in flight take their rest under the corridor eaves, perfectly contented couples, unaware of schemers, with red mouth and green body, cheek feathers as pristine as snow. Eating a seed, a bird flies off, mile after mile the sound of whistling wings.