I Love Order. It's My

Imagination At Wit's End Spreads Its Sad Wings.

I Had Seen Faces In Photographs I Might Have Found Beautiful Had I Known Even Vaguely In What Beauty Was Supposed To Consist. And My Father's Face, On His Death-bolster, Had Seemed To Hint At Some Form Of Aesthetics Relevant To Man. But The Faces Of The Living, All Grimace And Flush, Can They Be Described As Objects?

Dear Incomprehension, It's Thanks To You I'll Be Myself, In The End.

Sloth Is All Passions The Most Powerful.

They Give Birth Astride Of A Grave, The Light Gleams An Instant, Then It's Night Once More.