The World Is Not Unkind, And Reprobates

What Shall I Compare It To, This Fantastic Thing I Call My Mind? To A Waste-paper Basket, To A Sieve Choked With Sediment, Or To A Barrel Full Of Floating Froth And Refuse? No, What It Is Really Most Like Is A Spider's Web, Insecurely Hung On Leaves And Twigs, Quivering In Every Wind, And Sprinkled With Dewdrops And Dead Flies. And At Its Centre, Pondering Forever The Problem Of Existence, Sits Motionless The Spider-like And Uncanny Soul.

Only Those Who Get Into Scrapes With Their Eyes Open Can Find The Safe Way Out.

It Is Through The Cracks In Our Brains That Ecstasy Creeps In.

Most People Sell Their Souls, And Live With A Good Conscience On The Proceeds.

All My Life, As Down An Abyss Without A Bottom. I Have Been Pouring Van Loads Of Information Into That Vacancy Of Oblivion I Call My Mind.