Everything In This World Has A Hidden

I Believe I'm A Caterpillar Buried Deep Down Under The Ground. The Entire Earth Is Above Me, Crushing Me And I Begin To Bore Through The Soil, Making A Passage To The Surface So That I Can Penetrate The Crust And Issue Into The Light. It's Hard Work Boring Through The Entire Earth, But I'm Able To Be Patient Because I Have A Strong Premonition That As Soon As I Do Issue Into The Light I Shall Become A Butterfly.

Within This Arena, Which Grows More Stable Night After Day, Generations Work And Love And Hope And Vanish. New Generations Tread On The Corpses Of Their Fathers, Continue The Work Above The Abyss And Struggle To Tame The Dread Mystery. How? By Cultivating A Single Field, By Kissing A Woman, By Studying A Stone, An Animal, An Idea.

Free Yourself From One Passion To Be Dominated By Another And Nobler One. But Is Not That, Too, A Form Of Slavery? To Sacrifice Oneself To An Idea, To A Race, To God? Or Does It Mean That The Higher The Model The Longer The Longer The Tether Of Our Slavery?

Life Is Trouble. Only Death Is Not. To Be Alive Is To Undo Your Belt And *look* For Trouble.

A Woman's Body Is A Dark And Monstrous Mystery; Between Her Supple Thighs A Heavy Whirlpool Swirls, Two Rivers Crash, And Woe To Him Who Slips And Falls!