The World Is Chaos. Nothingness Is The

There Are Only Epicureans, Either Crude Or Refined; Christ Was The Most Refined.

The Stars Are Scattered All Over The Sky Like Shimmering Tears, There Must Be Great Pain In The Eye From Which They Trickled.

Whoever Finishes A Revolution Only Halfway, Digs His Own Grave.

The Strides Of Humanity Are Slow, They Can Only Be Counted In Centuries.

We Are Always On Stage, Even When We Are Stabbed In Earnest At The End.