To Think Things Out Properly And Fairly,

All Roads Lead To The Earth; The Abyss Leads To God. Jump!

When Shall I At Last Retire Into Solitude Alone, Without Companions, Without Joy And Without Sorrow, With Only The Sacred Certainty That All Is A Dream? When, In My Rags—without Desires—shall I Retire Contented Into The Mountains? When, Seeing That My Body Is Merely Sickness And Crime, Age And Death, Shall I—free, Fearless, And Blissful—retire To The Forest? When? When, Oh When?

Lord, Bend Me, Or I Shall Rot. Lord Do Not Bend Me Too Much, For I Shall Break. Lord Bend Me Too Much, Who Cares If I Break!

I Was Ill Before I Fell Ill.

I Felt This Was My Duty, My Sole Duty: To Reconcile The Irreconcilables, To Draw The Thick Ancestral Darkness Out Of My Loins And Transform It, To The Best Of My Ability, Into Light.