A First Sign Of The Beginning Of

People Who Walk Across Dark Bridges, Past Saints, With Dim, Small Lights. Clouds Which Move Across Gray Skies Past Churches With Towers Darkened In The Dusk. One Who Leans Against Granite Railing Gazing Into The Evening Waters, His Hands Resting On Old Stones.

It's Impossible To Defend Oneself In The Absence Of Goodwill

Beyond A Certain Point There Is No Return. This Point Has To Be Reached.

The Truth Is Always An Abyss.

I Cannot Make You Understand. I Cannot Make Anyone Understand What Is Happening Inside Me. I Cannot Even Explain It To Myself.