He Who Hates Himself Is Not Humble.

A Distant Enemy Is Always Preferable To One At The Gate.

We Die In Proportion To The Words We Fling Around Us.

Is It Possible That Existence Is Our Exile And Nothingness Our Home?

By What Aberration Has Suicide, The Only Truly Normal Action, Become The Attribute Of The Flawed?

Boredom Dismantles The Mind, Renders It Superficial, Out At The Seams, Saps It From Within And Dislocates It.