My Number Is 174517; We

This Is The Most Immediate Fruit Of Exile, Of Uprooting: The Prevalence Of The Unreal Over The Real. Everyone Dreamed Past And Future Dreams, Of Slavery And Redemption, Of Improbable Paradises, Of Equally Mythical And Improbable Enemies; Cosmic Enemies, Perverse And Subtle, Who Pervade Everything Like The Air.

I Am Constantly Amazed By Man's Inhumanity To Man.

Man Is A Centaur, A Tangle Of Flesh And Mind, Divine Inspiration And Dust.

Perhaps Kafka Laughed When He Told Stories [. . . ] Because One Isn't Always Equal To Oneself.

There Is Auschwitz, And So There Cannot Be God.