There Are Only Epicureans, Either Crude Or

And For Tired Eyes Every Light Is Too Bright, And For Tired Lips Every Breath Too Heavy, And For Tired Ears Every Word Too Much.

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

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

The Life Of The Wealthy Is One Long Sunday.

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