What Is Art But The Denial Of

As I Walk, I Construct Perfect Sentences That I Cannot Remember Later At Home. I Don’t Know If The Ineffable Poetry Of Those Sentences Derived From What They Were Or From Their Never Having Been (written).

I Am Tired Of Myself In Every Way. All Things, Deep Down To The Secret Of Their Roots, Are Stained By The Color Of My Weariness.

There Is No Safe Standard To Tell Man From Animals.

There's A Non-existent Peace In The Uncertain Quietness

To Be Understood Is To Prostitute Oneself