Maybe That's What Hell Is. You Go

We’re Going To Die And Not Even Know. We’ll Never Know, And All This Meaninglessness Will Just Go On And On And On. And We Won’t Any Longer Be Witnesses To It. We Won’t Have Even That Little Bit Of Power To Give Meaning To It In Our Minds. We’ll Just Be Gone, Dead, Dead, Dead, Without Ever Knowing!

We Have To Become Saints. We Have To Become Like Christ. Anything Less Is Simply Not Enough.

Don't Bend; Don't Water It Down; Don't Try To Make It Logical; Don't Edit Your Own Soul According To The Fashion. Rather, Follow Your Most Intense Obsessions Mercilessly. Only If You Do That Can You Hope To Make The Reader Feel Every Particle Of What You, The Writer, Have Known And Feel Compelled To Share."---forward To Kafka's Short Stories

Goodnight Sweet Prince, May Flights Of Devils Wing You To Your Rest.

Thank God He Killed The Guy. Oh, Now, Wait A Minute. What Kind Of A Prayer Was That!