At The Best Of Times,

I Drew The Curtains To Conceal The Sight Of My Father's Farewell; My Spite Was Sharp As Broken Glass.

The Child's Laughter Is Pure Until He First Laughs At A Clown.

All Artists, They Say, Are A Little Mad. This Madness Is, To A Certain Extent, A Self-created Myth Designed To Keep The Generality Away From The Phenomenally Close-knit Creative Community. Yet, In The World Of The Artists, The Consciously Eccentric Are Always Respectful And Admiring If Those Who Have The Courage To Be Genuinely A Little Mad.

Soon, Nostalgia Will Be Another Name For Europe.

With That, The Poignant Charm Vanished. Inside The Fifth Machine, All Was Rampant Malignity. Deformed Flowers Thrust Monstrous Horned Tusks And Trumpets Ending In Blaring Teeth Through The Crimson Walls, Rending Them; The Ravenous Garden Slavered Over Its Prey And Every Brick Was Shown In The Act Of Falling. Amid The Violence Of This Transformation, The Oblivion Of The Embrace Went On. The Awakened Girl, In All Her Youthful Loveliness, Still Clasped In The Arms Of A Lover From Whom All The Flesh Had Fallen. He Was A Grinning Skeleton.