With The Inevitability Of A Tongue Returning

It Is Great Good Health To Believe As The Hindus Do That There Are 33 Million Gods And Goddesses In The World. It Is Great Good Health To Want To Understand One S Dreams. It Is Great Good Health To Desire The Ambiguous And Paradoxical. It Is Sickness Of The Profoundest Kind To Believe That There Is One Reality. There Is Sickness In Any Piece Of Work Or Any Piece Of Art Seriously Attempting To Suggest That The Idea That There Is More Than One Reality Is Somehow Redundant.

There Is No Such Thing As Originality. It Has All Been Said Before, Suffered Before. If A Person Knows That, Is It Any Wonder Love Becomes Mechanical And Death Just A Scene To Be Shunned? There Is No Absolute Knowledge To Be Gained From Either. Just Another Ride On The Merry-go-round, Another Blurred Scene Of Faces Smiling And Faces Grieved.

The Moon Had Risen Behind Him, The Color Of A Shark's Underbelly. It Lit The Ruined Walls, And The Skin Of His Arms And Hands, With Its Sickly Light, Making Him Long For A Mirror In Which To Study His Face. Surely He'd Be Able To See The Bones Beneath The Meat; The Skull Gleaming The Way His Teeth Gleamed When He Smiled. After All, Wasn't That What A Smile Said? Hello, World, This Is The Way I'll Look When The Wet Parts Are Rotted.

Sooner Or Later Even The Most Ambitious Glutton Must Crawl Away And Seek The Solace Of The Vomitorium.

My Life Is In The Art That I Make, And I'm Very Happy With It.