Existence Is Illusory And It Is Eternal.

Beauty Is Unbearable, Drives Us To Despair, Offering Us For A Minute The Glimpse Of An Eternity That We Should Like To Stretch Out Over The Whole Of Time.

Don't Let Them Tell Us Stories.

Fancy Language, Like Poplin, Too Often Conceals An Eczema.

No Longer Were There Individual Destinies; Only A Collective Destiny, Made Of Plague And Emotions Shared By All.

For Ever, I Shall Be A Stranger To Myself.