I Want To Make A Poem Of

I Had Long Since Insisted Upon Interpreting The Things That Fate Forced Me To Do As Victories Of My Own Will And Intelligence, And Now This Bad Habit Had Grown Into A Sort Of Frenzied Arrogance. In The Nature Of What I Was Calling My Intelligence There Was A Touch Of Something Illegitimate, A Touch Of The Sham Pretender Who Has Been Placed On The Throne By Some Freak Chance. This Dolt Of A Usurper Could Not Foresee The Revenge That Would Inevitably Be Wreaked Upon His Stupid Despotism.

If The World Changed, I Could Not Exist, And If I Changed, The World Could Not Exist

If We Value So Highly The Dignity Of Life, How Can We Not Also Value The Dignity Of Death No Death May Be Called Futile.

True Beauty Is Something That Attacks, Overpowers, Robs, And Finally Destroys.

Human Beings - They Go On Being Born And Dying, Dying And Being Born. It's Kind Of Boring, Isn't It?