The Sun, The Hearth Of Affection And

I'm Now Making Myself As Scummy As I Can. Why? I Want To Be A Poet, And I'm Working At Turning Myself Into A Seer. You Won't Understand Any Of This, And I'm Almost Incapable Of Explaining It To You. The Idea Is To Reach The Unknown By The Derangement Of All The Senses. It Involves Enormous Suffering, But One Must Be Strong And Be A Born Poet. It's Really Not My Fault.

A Man Who Wants To Mutilate Himself Is Certainly Damned, Isn't He?

Only Divine Love Bestows The Keys Of Knowledge.

And From That Time On I Bathed In The Poem Of The Sea, Star-infused And Churned Into Milk, Devouring The Green Azures; Where, Entranced In Pallid Flotsam, A Dreaming Drowned Man Sometimes Goes Down.

Love...no Such Thing. Whatever It Is That Binds Families And Married Couples Together, That's Not Love. That's Stupidity Or Selfishness Or Fear. Love Doesn't Exist. Self Interest Exists, Attachment Based On Personal Gain Exists, Complacency Exists. But Not Love. Love Has To Be Reinvented, That’s Certain.