According To The Doctors, I'm Only Suffering

Objects And Their Functions No Longer Had Any Significance. All I Perceived Was Perception Itself, The Hell Of Forms And Figures Devoid Of Human Emotion And Detached From The Reality Of My Unreal Environment. I Was An Instrument In A Virtual World That Constantly Renewed Its Own Meaningless Image In A Living World That Was Itself Perceived Outside Of Nature. And Since The Appearance Of Things Was No Longer Definitive But Limitless, This Paradisiacal Awareness Freed Me From The Reality External To Myself. The Fire And The Rose, As It Were, Became One.

I Think Television Has Betrayed The Meaning Of Democratic Speech, Adding Visual Chaos To The Confusion Of Voices. What Role Does Silence Have In All This Noise?

What's Important Is The Way We Say It. Art Is All About Craftsmanship. Others Can Interpret Craftsmanship As Style If They Wish. Style Is What Unites Memory Or Recollection, Ideology, Sentiment, Nostalgia, Presentiment, To The Way We Express All That. It's Not What We Say But How We Say It That Matters.

Everyone Knows That Time Is Death, That Death Hides In Clocks. Imposing Another Time Powered By The Clock Of The Imagination, However, Can Refuse His Law. Here, Freed Of The Grim Reaper's Scythe, We Learn That Pain Is Knowledge And All Knowledge Pain.

Nietzsche Claimed That His Genius Was In His Nostrils And I Think That Is A Very Excellent Place For It To Be.