When A Writer Is Born Into A

Grow Your Tree Of Falsehood From A Small Grain Of Truth.

All Of Us Yearn For The Highest Wisdom, But We Have To Rely On Ourselves In The End.

The History Of My Stupidity Would Fill Many Volumes.

For A Country Without A Past Is Nothing, A Word That, Hardly Spoken, Loses Its Meaning, A Perishable Wall Destroyed By Flame, An Echo Of Animal Emotions.

Consciousness Even In My Sleep Changes Primary Colors. The Features Of My Face Melt Like A Wax Doll In The Fire. And Who Can Consent To See In The Mirror The Mere Face Of Man?