Our Desires Cut Across One

So We Don't Believe That Life Is Beautiful Because We Don't Recall It But If We Get A Whiff Of A Long-forgotten Smell We Are Suddenly Intoxicated And Similarly We Think We No Longer Love The Dead Because We Don't Remember Them But If By Chance We Come Across An Old Glove We Burst Into Tears.

Death Is In Truth An Illness From Which We Recover

When From A Long Distant Past Nothing Subsists After The Things Are Broken And Scattered, The Smell And Taste Of Things Remain.

In Reality, Every Reader Is, While Reading, The Reader Of His Own Self.

I Should Have Been Happy: I Wasn’t.