It Was A Love Of Perpetual Flight.

He Thought About His People Without Sentimentality, With A Strict Closing Of His Accounts With Life, Beginning To Understand How Much He Really Loved The People He Hated Most.

I Think Just The Opposite Is True: Love Is An Ideology For Eternal Militants, And The More Misfortunes Life Tries To Burden Us With, The More Essential Love Becomes.

Surrealism Runs Through The Streets.

Both Looked Back Then On The Wild Revelry...and They Lamented That It Had Cost Them So Much Of Their Lives To Find The Paradise Of Shared Solitude.

And Nevertheless, When They Watched Him Leave The House, This Man They Themselves Had Urged To Conquer The World, Then They Were The Ones Left With The Terror That He Would Never Return. That Was Their Life. Love, If It Existed, Was Something Separate: Another Life.