No Purer Artist Exists Or Has Ever

More Than One Philosopher Has Claimed That We Ever Remain Children, Far Beneath The Indurated Layers That Make Up The Armour Of Adulthood. Armour Encumbers, Restricts The Body And Soul Within It. But It Also Protects. Blows Are Blunted. Feelings Lose Their Edge, Leaving Us To Suffer Naught But A Plague Of Bruises, And, After A Time, Bruises Fade.

"tell Me, Tool, What Dominates Your Thoughts?" The Imass Shrugged Before Replying. "i Think Of Futility, Adjunct." "do All Imass Think About Futility?" "no. Few Think At All." "why Is That?" The Imass Leaned His Head To One Side And Regarded Her. "because, Adjunct, It Is Futile."

What Matter The Colour Of The Collar Around A Man's Neck, If The Chains Linked To Them Were Identical?

A Story Invites Both Writer And Reader Into A Kind Of Superficial Ease: We Want To Slide Along, Pleasingly Entertained, Lost In The Fictional Dream.

You Must Dismantle Your Sources, Lest You Do Nothing But Ape The Prejudices Of Others