What Do I Know Of Man's Destiny?

For In Me There Have Always Been Two Fools, Among Others, One Asking Nothing Better Than To Stay Where He Is And The Other Imagining That Life Might Be Slightly Less Horrible A Little Further On.

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

Dear Incomprehension, It's Thanks To You I'll Be Myself, In The End.

I Pause To Record That I Feel In Extraordinary Form. Delirium Perhaps.

Love Requited Is A Short Circuit.