In Every Man Sleeps A Prophet, And

As Art Sinks Into Paralysis, Artists Multiply. This Anomaly Ceases To Be One If We Realize That Art, On Its Way To Exhaustion, Has Become Both Impossible And Easy.

Tears Do Not Burn Except In Solitude.

I Am Like A Broken Puppet Whose Eyes Have Fallen Inside.

As The Years Pass, The Number Of Those We Can Communicate With Diminishes. When There Is No Longer Anyone To Talk To, At Last We Will Be As We Were Before Stooping To A Name.

We Define Only Out Of Despair, We Must Have A Formula... To Give A Facade Tot He Void.