From My Rotting Body, Flowers Shall Grow

Art Comes From Joy And Pain...but Mostly From Pain.

To Die Is As If One's Eyes Had Been Put Out And One Cannot See Anything Any More. Perhaps It Is Like Being Shut In A Cellar. One Is Abandoned By All. They Have Slammed The Door And Are Gone. One Does Not See Anything And Notices Only The Damp Smell Of Putrefaction.

Any Number Of Holier-than-thou Honorable Realists Walk Around In The Belief That They Have Accomplished Something, Simply Because They Tell You For The Hundredth Time That A Field Is Green And A Red-painted House Is Painted Red.

I Find It Difficult To Imagine An Afterlife, Such As Christians, Or At Any Rate Many Religious People, Conceive It, Believing That The Conversations With Relatives And Friends Interrupted Here On Earth Will Be Continued In The Hereafter.

My Father Was Temperamentally Nervous And Obsessively Religious—to The Point Of Psychoneurosis. From Him I Inherited The Seeds Of Madness. The Angels Of Fear, Sorrow, And Death Stood By My Side Since The Day I Was Born.