Disease, Insanity, And Death Were

Any Number Of Holier-than-thou Honorable Realists Walk Around In The Belief That They Have Accomplished Something, Simply Because They Tell You For The Hundredth Time That A Field Is Green And A Red-painted House Is Painted Red.

From My Rotting Body, Flowers Shall Grow And I Am In Them And That Is Eternity.

I Was Walking Along The Road With Two Friends. The Sun Set. I Felt A Tinge Of Melancholy. Suddenly The Sky Became A Bloody Red... I Stood There, Trembling With Fright. And I Felt A Loud, Unending Scream Piercing Nature.

Anybody Who Perceives Colors Can Become A Painter. It's Simply A Question Of Whether Or Not One Has Felt Anything And Whether One Has The Courage To Recount The Things One Has Felt.

And I Would Often Wake Up At Night And Stare Widely Into The Room: Am I In Hell?