History Is The Myth, The True Myth,

The Wallpaper With Which The Men Of Science Have Covered The World Of Reality Is Falling To Tatters. The Grand Whorehouse Which They Have Made Of Life Requires No Decoration; It Is Essential That Only The Drains Function Adequately. Beauty, That Feline Beauty That Has Us By The Balls In America, Is Finished.

To Paint Is To Love Again, And To Love Is To Live Life To The Fullest.

In The Beginning Was The Word. Man Acts It Out. He Is The Act, Not The Actor.

What Does It Matter How One Comes By The Truth So Long As One Pounces Upon It And Lives By It?

Surrealism Is Merely The Reflection Of The Death Process. It Is One Of The Manifestations Of A Life Becoming Extinct, A Virus Which Quickens The Inevitable End.