No Painting Is More Replete Than Mondrian's.

There Is No Escape From Yesterday Because Yesterday Has Deformed Us, Or Been Deformed By Us. The Mood Is Of No Importance. Deformation Has Taken Place.

Birth Was The Death Of Him.

Ever Tried. Ever Failed. No Matter. Try Again. Fail Again. Fail Better.

We Are All Born; Some Remain So.

Every Word Is Like An Unnecessary Stain On Silence And Nothingness.