It Is The Evening That Questions Thus

In Everything One Thing Is Impossible: Rationality.

Every Word Is A Prejudice.

The Noble Type Of Man Feels Himself To Be The Determiner Of Values, He Does Not Need To Be Approved Of, He Judges 'what Harms Me Is Harmful In Itself', He Knows Himself To Be That Which In General Accords Honour To Things, He Creates Values.

The Wheel And The Brake Have Different Duties, But Also One In Common: To Hurt One Another.

I Love All Who Are Like Heavy Drops Falling One By One Out Of The Dark Cloud That Lowereth Over Man: They Herald The Coming Of The Lightning, And Succumb As Heralds.