No Medicine Cures What Happiness Cannot.

It Was The Last That Remained Of A Past Whose Annihilation Had Not Taken Place Because It Was Still In A Process Of Annihilation, Consuming Itself From Within, Ending At Every Moment But Never Ending Its Ending.

She Felt The Abyss Of Disenchantment.

Why Do You Insist On Talking About What Does Not Exist?

Ultimately, Literature Is Nothing But Carpentry. With Both You Are Working With Reality, A Material Just As Hard As Wood.

Just Imagine, A Cow On The Balcony Of The Nation, What An Awful Thing, What A Shitty Country.