Not By Wrath Does One Kill, But

Man Is No Longer An Artist, He Has Become A Work Of Art.

I Have Not The Capability To Give You My Loyalty, Nor Do I Have The Vanity To Appear As If I Did.

From The Sun Did I Learn This, When It Goeth Down, The Exuberant One: Gold Doth It Then Pour Into The Sea, Out Of Inexhaustible Riches, -so That The Poorest Fisherman Roweth Even With Golden Oars! For This Did I Once See, And Did Not Tire Of Weeping In Beholding It. - Like The Sun Will Also Zarathustra Go Down: Now Sitteth He Here And Waiteth, Old Broken Tables Around Him, And Also New Tables Half-written.

Existence Really Is An Imperfect Tense That Never Becomes A Present.

Your God Is Dead And Only The Ignorant Weep. And If You Claim There Is A Hell, Then We Shall Meet There!