No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous

Prohibitions Create The Desire They Were Intended To Cure.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

Art Like Life Is An Open Secret.

The Appalling Thing Is The Degree Of Charity Women Are Capable Of. You See It All The Time... Love Lavished On Absolute Fools. Love's A Charity Ward, You Know.

These Are The Moments Which Are Not Calculable, And Cannot Be Assessed In Words; They Live On In The Solution Of Memory, Like Wonderful Creatures, Unique Of Their Own Kind, Dredged Up From The Floors Of Some Unexplored Ocean.