In My Religion, There Would

When We Have Ceased To Love The Stench Of The Human Animal, Either In Others Or In Ourselves, Then Are We Condemned To Misery, And Clear Thinking Can Begin.

Beneath A Mask Of Selfish Tranquility Nothing Exists Except Bitterness And Boredom.

The River Of Truth Is Always Splitting Up Into Arms That Reunite. Islanded Between Them, The Inhabitants Argue For A Lifetime As To Which Is The Mainstream.

There Is No Fury Like An Ex-wife Searching For A New Lover.

Doing Is Overrated, And Success Undesirable, But The Bitterness Of Failure Even More So.