Death Has To Be Waiting At The

Obligations, Hatreds, Injuries; What Did I Expect My Memories To Be? I Was Forgetting Remorse. Now I Have A Complete Past.

It Is Restful, Tragedy, Because One Knows That There Is No More Lousy Hope Left. You Know You're Caught, Caught At Last Like A Rat With All The World On Its Back. And The Only Thing Left To Do Is Shout - Not Moan, Or Complain, But Yell Out At The Top Of Your Voice Whatever It Was You Had To Say. What You've Never Said Before. What Perhaps You Don't Even Know Till Now.

It Takes A Certain Courage And A Certain Greatness Even To Be Truly Base.

Life Isn't What You Think It Is. It's Like Water, And The Young Let It Trickle Away Between Their Fingers Without Even Noticing. Cup Your Hands, Keep It Safe. Life Eventually Becomes Something Else, Something Hard, Something Simple, Something You Can Hold In Your Hand And Nibble On Contentedly As You Sit In The Sun.

Listen, My Friend, There Are Two Races Of Beings. The Masses Teeming And Happy - Common Clay, If You Like - Eating, Breeding, Working, Counting Their Pennies; People Who Just Live; Ordinary People; People You Can't Imagine Dead. And Then There Are The Others - The Noble Ones, The Heroes. The Ones You Can Quite Well Imagine Lying Shot, Pale And Tragic; One Minute Triumphant With A Guard Of Honor, And The Next Being Marched Away Between Two Gendarmes