Odd, Isn't It? He Really Was The

We Are The Children Of Our Landscape; It Dictates Behavior And Even Thought In The Measure To Which We Are Responsive To It.

Perhaps Our Only Sickness Is To Desire A Truth Which We Cannot Bear Rather Than To Rest Content With The Fictions We Manufacture Out Of Each Other.

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.

Travel Can Be One Of The Most Rewarding Forms Of Introspection.

You See, Nothing Matters Except Pleasure - Which Is The Opposite Of Happiness, Its Tragic Part, I Expect.