Everything One Records Contains A Grain Of

Death Is A Scandal. The Machine Is Functioning, We Are All Hostages

...how Could I, Fool That I Am, Go On Sitting In My Office, Or Here At Home, Instead Of Leaping Onto A Train With My Eyes Shut And Opening Them Only When I Am With You?

There Can Be No Creator, Simply Because His Grief At The Fate Of His Creation Would Be Inconceivable And Unendurable.

In Five Minutes The Earth Would Be A Desert, And You Cling To Books.

I Try To Imagine Someone Saying To Shakespeare, 'relax!