For The Man Who Thought He Was

Falsehood Is Never In Words; It Is In Things.

The Things That The Novel Does Not Say Are Necessarily More Numerous Than Those It Does Say And Only A Special Halo Around What Is Written Can Give The Illusion That You Are Reading Also What Is Not Written.

Memories Images, Once They Are Fixed In Words, Are Erased.

Yet, Even Now, Ever Time (often) That I Find That I Don't Understand Something, Then Instinctively, I'm Filled With The Hope That Perhaps This Will Be My Moment Again, Perhaps Once Again I Shall Understand Nothing, I Shall Grasp That Other Knowledge, Found And Lost In An Instant.

Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires And Fears.