A Criminal Is Undoubtedly A Poor Soul,

The Study Of Sickness Is The Most Poetic Of The Sciences.

The Anger And The Brutality Against Everything Can Readily From One Hour To The Next Be Transformed Into Its Opposite.

You've Always Lived A Life Of Pretense, Not A Real Life-- A Simulated Existence, Not A Genuine Existence. Everything About You, Everything You Are, Has Always Been Pretense, Never Genuine, Never Real.

Those Who Live In The Country Get Idiotic In Time, Without Noticing It, For A While They Think It's Original And Good For Their Health, But Life In The Country Is Not Original At All, For Anyone Who Wasn't Born In And For The Country It Shows A Lack Of Taste And Is Only Harmful To Their Health. The People Who Go Walking In The Country Walk Right Into Their Own Funeral In The Country And At The Very Least They Lead A Grotesque Existence Which Leads Them First Into Idiocy, Then Into An Absurd Death.

One Day You're Cut Off, At The Very Start You're Cut Off And Can't Go Back, The Language You Learn And The Whole Business Of Walking And All The Rest Is For The Sake Of The Single Thought, How To Get Back Again.