Death Makes Angels Of Us All And

Cinema Returns Us To Anima, Religion Of Matter, Which Gives Each Thing Its Special Divinity And Sees Gods In All Things And Beings. Cinema, Heir Of Alchemy, Last Of An Erotic Science.

Out Here On The Perimeter There Are No Stars. Out Here We Is Stoned. Immaculate.

I Pressed Her Thigh And Death Smiled

There May Be A Time When We'll Attend Weather Theaters To Recall The Sensation Of Rain.

I Think, In These Days, Especially In The States, You Have To Be A Politician Or An Assassin Or Something, To Really Be A Superstar.