The Theatre Is A Tragic Place, Full

A Middling Talent Makes For A More Serene Life.

Nothing Is More Maddening Than Being Questioned By The Object Of One's Interest About The Object Of Hers, Should That Object Not Be You.

But Fantasy Kills Imagination, Pornography Is Death To Art.

So We Live; A Spirit That Broods And Hovers Over The Continual Death Of Time, The Lost Meaning, The Unrecaptured Moment, The Unremembered Face, Until The Final Chop That Ends All Our Moments And Plunges That Spirit Back Into The Void From Which It Came.

Words Are The Most Subtle Symbols Which We Possess And Our Human Fabric Depends On Them.