Love Is Made By Two People, In

That You Are Not Already Golden Word In Our Streets Already Memories Your Love Fades Already Whether You Are No Longer To Have Perished.

It Sometimes Happens That Pleasure Blows Anywhere It Damn Well Chooses.

No More Painters, No More Scribblers, No More Musicians, No More Sculptors, No More Religions, No More Royalists, No More Radicals, No More Imperialists, No More Anarchists, No More Socialists, No More Communists, No More Proletariat, No More Democrats, No More Republicans, No More Bourgeois, No More Aristocrats, No More Arms, No More Police, No More Nations, An End At Last To All This Stupidity, Nothing Left, Nothing At All, Nothing, Nothing.

Can The Knowledge Deriving From Reason Even Begin To Compare With Knowledge Perceptible By Sense?

And There Are Loners In Rural Communities Who, At The Equinox, Are Said To Don New Garments And Stroll Down To The Cities, Where Great Beasts Await Them, Fat And Docile.