The Thoughts Of My Emotionally So Disturbed

Clothes, When Abstracted From The Flow Of Present Time And Their Transmogrifying Function On The Human Body, And Seen As Forms In Themselves, Are Strange Tubes And Excrescences Worthy Of Being Classed With Such Facial Decorations As The Ring Through The Nose Or The Lip-stretching Disk. But How Enchanting They Become When Seen Togetherwith The Qualities They Bestow On Their Wearer! What Happens Then Is No Less Than The Infusion, Into Some Tangled Lines On A Piece Of Paper, Of The Meaning Of A Great Word.

Each Person Is A Graveyard Of His Thoughts. They Are Most Beautiful For Us In The Moment Of Their Birth; Later We Can Often Sense A Deep Pain That They Leave Us Indifferent Where Earlier They Enchanted Us.

You See How Wrong I Go, How Ridiculous I'm Making Myself In Your Eyes By Keeping On Guessing Wrong Like This! Doesn't That Help You To Come Out With It? Come On Now!

It's Not The Genius Who Is 100 Years Ahead Of His Time But Average Man Who Is 100 Years Behind It.

I Also Believe That Few People Remain Completely Untouched By The Thought That Instead Of The Life They Lead There Might Also Be Another, Where All Actions Proceed From A Very Personal State Of Excitement. Where Actions Have Meanings, Not Just Causes. And Where A Person, To Use A Trivial Word, Is Happy, And Not Just Nervously Tormenting Himself.