If A Man Who Can’t Count Finds

How Do You Expect To Communicate With The Ocean, When You Can’t Even Understand One Another?

Seduced, Shaggy Samson Snored. She Scissored Short. Sorely Shorn, Soon Shackled Slave, Samson Sighed, Silently Scheming, Sightlessly Seeking Some Savage, Spectacular Suicide.

And Yet We Knew, For A Certainty, That When First Emissaries Of Earth Went Walking Among The Planets, Earth's Other Sons Would Be Dreaming Not About Such Expeditions But About A Piece Of Bread.

It Has No Meaning, What Do You Use To Write, The Only Thing That Is Important Is: What Do You Write. A Machine To Write A Book Instead Of A Writer Is Not Invented Yet, And Probably Will Never Be.

So One Must Be Resigned To Being A Clock That Measures The Passage Of Time, Now Out Of Order, Now Repaired, And Whose Mechanism Generates Despair And Love As Soon As Its Maker Sets It Going? Are We To Grow Used To The Idea That Every Man Relives Ancient Torments, Which Are All The More Profound Because They Grow Comic With Repetition? That Human Existence Should Repeat Itself, Well And Good, But That It Should Repeat Itself Like A Hackneyed Tune, Or A Record A Drunkard Keeps Playing As He Feeds Coins Into The Jukebox.