God Is The Poetic Genius

When Nations Grow Old The Arts Grow Cold And Commerce Settles On Every Tree

I Love Hanging And Drawing And Quartering Every Bit As Well As War And Slaughtering.

I Am More Famed In Heaven For My Works Than I Could Well Conceive. In My Brain Are Studies & Chambers Filled With Books & Pictures Of Old, Which I Wrote And Painted In Ages Of Eternity Before My Mortal Life; And Whose Works Are The Delight & Study Of Archangels. Why, Then, Should I Be Anxious About The Riches Or Fame Of Mortality?

Mutual Forgiveness Of Each Vice. Such Are The Gates Of Paradise.

If The Doors Of Perception Were Cleansed Everything Would Appear To Man As It Is, Infinite.