Illusion Is No Longer Possible,

As The End Of The Century Approaches, All Our Culture Is Like The Culture Of Flies At The Beginning Of Winter. Having Lost Their Agility, Dreamy And Demented, They Turn Slowly About The Window In The First Icy Mists Of Morning. They Give Themselves A Last Wash And Brush-up, Their Oscillated Eyes Roll, And They Fall Down The Curtains.

Perhaps Our Eyes Are Merely A Blank Film Which Is Taken From Us After Our Deaths To Be Developed Elsewhere And Screened As Our Life Story In Some Infernal Cinema Or Dispatched As Microfilm Into The Sidereal Void.

The Desert Is No Longer A Landscape, It Is A Pure Form Produced By The Abstraction Of All Others.

The Liberated Man Is Not The One Who Is Freed In His Ideal Reality, His Inner Truth, Or His Transparency; He Is The Man Who Changes Spaces, Who Circulates, Who Changes Sex, Clothes, And Habits According To Fashion, Rather Than Morality, And Who Changes Opinions Not As His Conscience Dictates But In Response To Opinion Polls.

A Society Which Allows An Abominable Event To Burgeon From Its Dung Heap And Grow On Its Surface Is Like A Man Who Lets A Fly Crawl Unheeded Across His Face Or Saliva Dribble From His Mouth -- Either Epileptic Or Dead.