Of All Our Feelings The Only One

Memory Weaves And Traps Us At The Same Time According To A Scheme In Which We Do Not Participate: We Should Never Speak Of Our Memory, For It Is Anything But Ours; It Works On Its Own Terms, It Assists Us While Deceiving Us Or Perhaps Deceives Up To Assist Us.

[heaven Is] That Moment In Which Something Attains Its Maximum Depth, Its Maximum Reach, Its Maximum Sense, And Becomes Completely Uninteresting.

Where Are The Beginnings, The Endings, And Most Important, The Middles?

Only By Living Absurdly Is It Possible To Break Out Of This Infinite Absurdity.

Time Is Born In The Eyes, Everybody Knows That.