Dying People Often Become Childish.

The Statue Of Freedom Has Not Been Cast Yet, The Furnace Is Hot, We Can All Still Burn Our Fingers.

The World Is Chaos. Nothingness Is The Yet-to-be-born God Of The World.

How Many Women Does One Need To Sing The Scale Of Love All The Way Up And Down?

The Stars Are Scattered All Over The Sky Like Shimmering Tears, There Must Be Great Pain In The Eye From Which They Trickled.

One Must Love Humanity In Order To Reach Out Into The Unique Essence Of Each Individual: No One Can Be Too Low Or Too Ugly.