Logic Is A Very Beautiful Thing. As

All Cats Die. Socrates Is Dead. Therefore Socrates Is A Cat.

The End Of Childhood Is When Things Cease To Astonish Us. When The World Seems Familiar, When One Has Got Used To Existence, One Has Become An Adult.

When Silence Confronts Us, The Question To Which There Is No Answer Rings Out In The Silence. That Ultimate "why," That Great "why" Is Like A Light That Blots Out Everything, But A Blinding Light; Nothing More Can Be Made Out.

Boredom Flourishes Too, When You Feel Safe. It's A Symptom Of Security.

I Have No Other Pictures Of The World Apart From Those Which Express Evanescence, And Callousness, Vanity And Anger, Emptiness, Orhideous Useless Hate. Everything Has Merely Confirmed What I Had Seen And Understood In My Childhood: Futile And Sordid Fits Of Rage, Cries Suddenly Blanketed By The Silence, Shadows Swallowed Up For Ever By The Night.