A Book Is A Suicide Postponed.

Ennui Is The Echo In Us Of Time Tearing Itself Apart.

Since All Life Is Futility, Then The Decision To Exist Must Be The Most Irrational Of All.

Anyone Who Speaks In The Name Of Others Is Always An Impostor.

True Confessions Are Written With Tears Only. But My Tears Would Drown The World, As My Inner Fire Would Reduce It To Ashes.

No Matter Which Way We Go, It Is No Better Than Any Other. It Is All The Same Whether You Achieve Something Or Not, Have Faith Or Not, Just As It Is All The Same Whether You Cry Or Remain Silent.