The Inventor Of The Mirror Poisoned The

Whether Or Not They Exist We Are Slaves To Our Gods.

For Who Expects Nothing, All That Comes Is Grateful

Nostalgia! I Feel It Even For Someone Who Meant Nothing To Me, Out Of Anxiety For The Flight Of Time And A Sickness Bred Of The Mystery Of Life. If One Of The Faces I Pass Daily On The Streets Disappears, I Feel Sad; Yet They Meant Nothing To Me, Other Than Being A Symbol Of All Life.

Life Hurls Us Like A Stone, And We Sail Through The Air Saying, "look At Me Move.

For Valuing Your Own Suffering Sets On It The Gold Of A Sun Of Pride. Suffering A Lot Can Originate The Illusion Of Being The Chosen Of Pain.