The Cadence Of Suffering Has Begun. Every

A Corpse Is What's Left After Waking Too Often.

Reality Is A Prison, Where One Vegetates And Always Will. All The Rest - Thought, Action - Is Just A Pastime, Mental Or Physical. What Counts Then, Is To Come To Grips With Reality. The Rest Can Go.

The Problems That Agitate One Generation Are Exstinguished For The Next, Not Because They Have Been Solved But Because The General Lack Of Interest Sweeps Them Away.

Men Who Have A Tempestuous Inner Life And Do Not Seek To Give Vent To It By Talking Or Writing Are Simply Men Who Have No Tempestuous Inner Life. Give Company To A Lonely Man And He Will Talk More Than Anyone.

One Does Not Kill Oneself For Love Of A Woman, But Because Love - Any Love - Reveals Us In Our Nakedness, Our Misery, Our Vulnerability, Our Nothingness.