You, Oh Mature Ones, Keep Company Solely

Wherever I See Some Mystique, Be It Virtue Or Family, Faith Or Fatherland, There I Must Commit Some Indecent Act.

Our Element Is Unending Immaturity.

Beauty Beheld In Solitude Is Even More Lethal.

I Am Reading Sienkiewicz. What Tormenting Reading. What A Powerful Genius! And There Never Was Such A First-rate Writer Of The Second-rate Class.

We Say 'forest' But This Word Is Made Of The Unknown, The Unfamiliar, The Unencompassed. The Earth. Clods Of Dirt. Pebbles. On A Clear Day You Rest Among Ordinary, Everyday Things That Have Been Familiar To You Since Childhood, Grass, Bushes, A Dog (or A Cat), A Chair, But That Changes When You Realize That Every Object Is An Enormous Army, An Inexhaustible Swarm.