People Trample Over Flowers, Yet Only To

The Personality Of The Artist, At First A Cry Or A Cadence Or A Mood And Then A Fluid, And Lambent Narrative, Finally Refines Itself Out Of Existence, Impersonalises Itself, So To Speak. The Aesthetic Image In The Dramatic Form Is Life Purified In And Reprojected From The Human Imagination. The Mystery Of Aesthetic Like That Of Material Creation Is Accomplished. The Artist, Like The God Of The Creation, Remains Within Or Behind Or Beyond Or Above His Handiwork, Invisible, Refined Out Of Existence, Indifferent, Paring His Fingernails.

My Puns Are Not Trivial. They Are Quadrivial

All Human History Moves Towards One Great Goal

No Pen, No Ink, No Table, No Room, No Time, No Quiet, No Inclination.

Masturbation! The Amazing Availability Of It!