To Achieve Harmony In Bad

Beauty Has No Other Origin Than The Singular Wound, Different In Every Case, Hidden Or Visible, Which Each Man Bears Within Himself, Which He Preserves, And Into Which He Withdraws When He Would Quit The World For A Temporary But Authentic Solitude

In Order To Weep, I Had Descended To The Realm Of The Dead Themselves, To Their Secret Chambers, Led By The Invisible But Soft Hands Of Birds Down Stairways Which Were Folded Up Again As I Advanced. I Displayed My Grief In The Friendly Fields Of Death, Far From Men: Within Myself.

Love Makes Use Of The Worst Traps. The Least Noble. The Rarest. It Exploits Coincidence.

The Time For Reasoning Is Past; Now's The Time To Get Steamed Up And Fight Like Mad.

Slowly But Surly I Want To Strip Her Of Every Kind Of Happiness As To Make A Saint Of Her.