Time Is Round, And It

Inexperience Loves To Preach.

All The Political, Social, And Economic Improvements, All The Technical Progress Cannot Have Any Regenerating Significance, So Long As Our Inner Life Remains As It Is At Present. The More The Intelligence Unveils And Violates The Secrets Of Nature, The More The Danger Increases And The Heart Shrinks.

The Human Soul Is Heavy, Clumsy, Held In The Mud Of The Flesh. Its Perceptions Are Still Coarse And Brutish. It Can Divine Nothing Clearly, Nothing With Certainty.

Thus Night With All Her Snares Passed Through The Upper World And Baited All Heads Sweetly, Fed All Foolish Hopes, For Night Can Bring To Men All Shrewish Day Denies, Wrapped As A Gift In The Green Leaves Of Opiate Dream.

I Hate All Virtues Based On Food And Bloated Bellies; Though Food And Drink Are Good, I'm Better Slaked And Fed By That Inhuman Flame Which Burns In Our Black Bowels. I Like To Name That Flame Which Burns Within Me God!