How should all the apparatus of heaven and earth, from the farthest firmament to the tender bosom of the mother who nourished us, make poetry for a mind that had no movements of awe and tenderness, no sense of fellowship which thrills from the near to the distant, and back again from the distant to the near?

The women all want to dance. I dance all night every night.

The hours ahead, like all her nights with him, would be added, she thought, to that savings account of one’s life where moments of time are stored in the pride of having been lived.

True artists are prophets. I don&#39;t want to be that prophetic in that sense because it&#39;s so lonely.

Written By Yoko Ono

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