When I was born, salt-water waves lapped against glacial clay banks and the great, glacial stones of the Pacific coast, the rocking of the world in the cradle of the Sea. The shouts of seagulls mingled with the rude clang of foghorns and the forlorn keening of ships' bells in those gray realms between the physical and the fluidic, where dream and landscape are knitted together with calm, insistent voice.
Mark Rothko
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Richard Estes
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Edward Burne-jones
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