We Are All Deep In A Hell

Our Works, Whatever They May Be, Derive From Our Incapacity To Kill Or To Kill Ourselves.

Every Profound Dissatisfaction Is Of A Religious Nature: Our Failures Derive From Our Incapacity To Conceive Of Paradise And To Aspire To It, As Our Discomforts From The Fragility Of Our Relations With The Absolute.

Melancholy: An Appetite No Misery Satisfies.

In Every Man Sleeps A Prophet, And When He Wakes There Is A Little More Evil In The World.

Where Are My Sensations? They Have Melted Into... Me, And What Is This Me, This Self, But The Sum Of These Evaporated Sensations?