The Secret Of Theory Is That Truth

One Of The Pleasures Of Travel Is To Dive Into Places Where Others Are Compelled To Live And Come Out Unscathed, Full Of The Malicious Pleasure Of Abandoning Them To Their Fate.

To Love Someone Is To Isolate Him From The World, Wipe Out Every Trace Of Him, Dispossess Him Of His Shadow, Drag Him Into A Murderous Future. It Is To Circle Around The Other Like A Dead Star And Absorb Him Into A Black Light.

In Days Gone By, We Were Afraid Of Dying In Dishonor Or A State Of Sin. Nowadays, We Are Afraid Of Dying Fools. Now The Fact Is That There Is No Extreme Unction To Absolve Us Of Foolishness. We Endure It Here On Earth As Subjective Eternity.

Like Dreams, Statistics Are A Form Of Wish Fulfillment.

Postmodernity Is Said To Be A Culture Of Fragmentary Sensations, Eclectic Nostalgia, Disposable Simulacra, And Promiscuous Superficiality, In Which The Traditionally Valued Qualities Of Depth, Coherence, Meaning, Originality, And Authenticity Are Evacuated Or Dissolved Amid The Random Swirl Of Empty Signals.