Often I Had To Imagine The Things

What Novel - Or What Else In The World - Can Have The Epic Scope Of A Photograph Album? May Our Father In Heaven, The Untiring Amateur Who Each Sunday Snaps Us From Above, At An Unfortunate Angle That Makes For Hideous Foreshortening, And Pastes Our Pictures, Properly Exposed Or Not, In His Album, Guide Me Safely Through This Album Of Mine.

Where Man Had Been, In Every Place He Left, Garbage Remained. Even In His Pursuit Of The Ultimate Truth And Quest For His God, He Produced Garbage. By His Garbage, Which Lay Stratum Upon Stratum, He Could Always - One Had Only To Dig - Be Known. For More Long-lived Than Man Is His Refuse. Garbage Alone Lives After Him.

We Dance For The Pure Joy Of It. In The Kitchen To The Record Player. Because We've Got It In Us. All Over ... It's Not Just In The Legs. It Comes From Inside And Runs All Through You. In Waves. From Down Below To Up Above. All The Way To The Scalp.

Translation Is That Which Transforms Everything So That Nothing Changes.

Even If Surrounded With Explanations, Auschwitz Can Never Be Grasped.