Art Is The Most Passionate Orgy Within

Nothing But Man Of All Envenomed Things, Doth Work Upon Itself, With Inborn Stings.

Reason Is Our Soul's Left Hand, Faith Her Right, By These We Reach Divinity

We Give Each Other A Smile With A Future In It

There Is In Every Miracle A Silent Chiding Of The World, And A Tacit Reprehension Of Them Who Require, Or Who Need Miracles.

But I Do Nothing Upon Myself, And Yet I Am My Own Executioner.