Life Is The Farce Which Everyone Has

Stronger Than Alcohol, Vaster Than Poetry, Ferment The Freckled Red Bitterness Of Love!

The Wolf Howled Under The Leaves And Spit Out The Prettiest Feathers Of His Meal Of Fowl: Like Him I Consume Myself.

One Evening I Sat Beauty On My Knees – And I Found Her Bitter – And I Reviled Her.

I Saw That All Beings Are Fated To Happiness: Action Is Not Life, But A Way Of Wasting Some Force, An Enervation. Morality Is The Weakness Of The Brain.

It Began As Research. I Wrote Of Silences, Of Nights, I Scribbled The Indescribable. I Tied Down The Vertigo.