My Bits Of Time Play With Eternity.

Truth Has Very Few Friends And Those Few Are Suicides.

No One Is A Light Unto Himself, Not Even The Sun.

He Who Has Made A Thousand Things And He Who Has Made None, Both Feel The Same Desire: To Make Something.

Set Out From Any Point. They Are All Alike. They All Lead To A Point Of Departure.

When Everything Is Finished, The Mornings Are Sad.