Once The Last Trace Of

The Man For Whom Time Stretches Out Painfully Is One Waiting In Vain, Disappointed At Not Finding Tomorrow Already Continuing Yesterday.

There Is No Love That Is Not An Echo.

Thus Is Order Ensured: Some Have To Play The Game Because They Cannot Otherwise Live, And Those Who Could Live Otherwise Are Kept Out Because They Do Not Want To Play The Game. It Is As If The Class From Which Independent Intellectuals Have Defected Takes Its Revenge, By Pressing Its Demands Home In The Very Domain Where The Deserter Seeks Refuge.

Dissonance Is The Truth About Harmony.

He Who Matures Early Lives In Anticipation.