Falsehood Is Never In Words; It Is

For The Man Who Thought He Was Man There Is No Salvation.

...and Every Wednesday The Perfumed Young Lady Slips Me A Hundred-crown Note To Leave Her Alone With The Convict. And By Thursday The Hundred Crowns Are Already Gone In So Much Beer. And When The Visiting Hour Is Over, The Young Lady Comes Out With The Stink Of Jail In Her Elegant Clothes; And The Prisoner Goes Back To His Cell With The Lady's Perfume In His Jailbird's Suit. And I'm Left With The Smell Of Beer. Life Is Nothing But Trading Smells.

Whenever Humanity Seems Condemned To Heaviness, I Think I Should Fly Like Perseus Into A Different Space. I Don't Mean Escaping Into Dreams Or Into The Irrational. I Mean That I Have To Change My Approach, Look At The World From A Different Perspective, With A Different Logic And With Fresh Methods Of Cognition And Verification.

I Could Distinguish The Shape Of Her Bosom, Her Arms, Her Thighs, Just As I Remember Them Now, Just As Now, When The Moon Has Become That Flat, Remote Circle, I Still Look For Her As Soon As The First Sliver Appears In The Sky, And The More It Waxes, The More Clearly I Imagine I Can See Her, Her Or Something Of Her, But Only Her, In A Hundred, A Thousand Different Vistas, She Who Makes The Moon The Moon And, Whenever She Is Full, Sets The Dogs To Howling All Night Long, And Me With Them.

The Catalogue Of Forms Is Endless: Until Every Shape Has Found Its City, New Cities Will Continue To Be Born. When The Forms Exhaust Their Variety And Come Apart, The End Of Cities Begins.