True Wars Are Never Won.

Nobody, Not Even The Rain, Has Such Small Hands

The Symbol Of All Art Is The Prism. The Goal Is Unrealism. The Method Is Destructive. To Break Up The White Light Of Objective Realism, Into The Secret Glories Which It Contains.

What If A Dawn Of A Doom Of A Dream Bites This Universe In Two, Peels Forever Out Of His Grave, And Sprinkles Nowhere With Me And You?

The Sensual Mysticism Of Entire Vertical Being.

Worms Are The Words But Joy's The Voice