No Painting Is More Replete Than Mondrian's.

They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.

What Do I Know Of Man's Destiny? I Could Tell You More About Radishes.

I Open The Door Of The Cell And Go. I Am So Bowed I Only See My Feet, If I Open My Eyes, And Between My Legs A Little Trail Of Black Dust. I Say To Myself That The Earth Is Extinguished, Though I Never Saw It Lit.

Personally Of Course I Regret Everything. Not A Word, Not A Deed, Not A Thought, Not A Need, Not A Grief, Not A Joy, Not A Girl, Not A Boy, Not A Doubt, Not A Trust, Not A Scorn, Not A Lust, Not A Hope, Not A Fear, Not A Smile, Not A Tear, Not A Name, Not A Face, No Time, No Place...that I Do Not Regret, Exceedingly. An Ordure, From Beginning To End.

They Never Lynch Children, Babies, No Matter What They Do They Are Whitewashed In Advance.