Art Is Science Made Flesh.

The World Owes Its Enchantment To These Curious Creatures And Their Fancies; But Its Multiple Complicity Rejects Them. Thistledown Spirits, Tragic, Heartrending In Their Evanescence, They Must Go Blowing Headlong To Perdition.

I Am Burning Myself Up And Will Always Do So.

I'm Not Willing Just To Be Tolerated. That Wounds My Love Of Love And Of Liberty.

There Is Always A Period When A Man With A Beard Shaves It Off. This Period Does Not Last. He Returns Headlong To His Beard.

Without Opium, Plans, Marriages And Journeys Appear To Me Just As Foolish As If Someone Falling Out Of A Window Were To Hope To Make Friends With The Occupants Of The Room Before Which He Passes.