Art Raises Its Head Where Creeds Relax.

The Spirit Of The Poet Craves Spectators... Even If Only Buffaloes.

Our Drives Are Reducible To The Will To Power. The Will To Power Is The Ultimate Fact At Which We Arrive.

Whenever The Truth Is Uncovered, The Artist Will Always Cling With Rapt Gaze To What Still Remains Covering Even After Such Uncovering; But The Theoretical Man Enjoys And Finds Satisfaction In The Discarded Covering And Finds The Highest Object Of His Pleasure In The Process Of An Ever Happy Uncovering That Succeeds Through His Own Efforts.

There Are Various Eyes. Even The Sphinx Has Eyes: And As A Result There Are Various Truths, And As A Result There Is No Truth.

I Obviously Do Everything To Be "hard To Understand" Myself