God: A Disease We Imagine We Are

There Was A Time When Time Did Not Yet Exist. … The Rejection Of Birth Is Nothing But The Nostalgia For This Time Before Time.

What I Know At Sixty, I Knew As Well At Twenty. Forty Years Of A Long, Superfluous, Labor Of Verification.

Doubt Works Deep Within You Like A Disease Or, Even More Effectively, Like A Faith.

Nostalgia, More Than Anything, Gives Us The Shudder Of Our Own Imperfection. This Is Why With Chopin We Feel So Little Like Gods.

Consider Love: Is There A Nobler Outpouring, A Rapture Less Suspect? Its Shudders Rival Music, Compete With The Tears Of Solitude And Of Ecstasy: Sublime...but A Sublimity Inseperable From The Urinary Tract: Transports Bordering Upon Excretion, A Heaven Of The Glands, Sudden Sancitity Of The Orifices. It Takes No More Than A Moment Of Attention For This Intoxication, Shaken, To Cast You Back Into The Ordures Of Physiology Or A Moment Of Fatigue To Recognize That So Much Ardor Produces Only A Variety Of Mucous.