What Can Be Said, Lacks Reality. Only

Our Works, Whatever They May Be, Derive From Our Incapacity To Kill Or To Kill Ourselves.

However Much I Have Frequented The Mystics, Deep Down I Have Always Sided With The Devil; Unable To Equal Him In Power, I Have Tried To Be Worthy Of Him, At Least, In Insolence, Acrimony, Arbitrariness And Caprice.

The Limit Of Every Pain Is An Even Greater Pain.

We Define Only Out Of Despair, We Must Have A Formula... To Give A Facade Tot He Void.

What Does The Future, That Half Of Time, Matter To The Man Who Is Infatuated With Eternity?