All Art Is An Intensely Vulnerable Gesture,

Evil Is Nothing But A Word, An Objectification Where No Objectification Is Necessary. Cast Aside This Notion Of Some External Agency As The Source Of Inconceivable Inhumanity - The Sad Truth Is Our Possession Of An Innate Proclivity Towards Indifference, Towards Deliberate Denial Of Mercy, Towards Disengaging All That Is Moral Within Us. But If That Is Too Dire , Let's Call It Evil. And Paint It With Fire And Venom.

Do Mortal Fools Still Measure The Increments Leading To Their Deaths, Wagering Pleasures Against Costs, Persisting In The Delusion That Deeds Have Value, That The World And All The Gods Sit In Judgment Over Every Decision Made Or Not Made?

And Over It All, The Butterflies Swarmed, Like A Million Yellow-pettalled Flowers Dancing On Swirling Winds.

Survivors Do Not Mourn Together. They Each Mourn Alone, Even When In The Same Place. Grief Is The Most Solitary Of All Feelings. Grief Isolates, And Every Ritual, Every Gesture, Every Embrace, Is A Hopeless Effort To Break Through That Isolation. None Of It Works. The Forms Crumble And Dissolve. To Face Death Is To Stand Alone.

Ambition Is Not A Dirty Word. Piss On Compromise. Go For The Throat.