I Am Like A Broken Puppet Whose

I Foresee The Day When We Shall Read Nothing But Telegrams And Prayers.

Woes And Wonders Of Power, That Tonic Hell, Synthesis Of Poison And Panacea.

Tyrants Are Always Assassinated Too Late. That Is Their Great Excuse.

The More One Has Suffered, The Less One Demands. To Protest Is A Sign One Has Traversed No Hell.

Music Is The Refuge Of Souls Ulcerated By Happiness.