Our Place Is Somewhere Between Being And

The Multiplication Of Our Kind Borders On The Obscene; The Duty To Love Them, On The Preposterous.

By Virtue Of Depression, We Recall Those Misdeeds We Buried In The Depths Of Our Memory. Depression Exhumes Our Shames.

By All Evidence We Are In The World To Do Nothing; But Instead Of Nonchalantly Promenading Our Own Corruption, We Exude Our Sweat And Grow Winded Upon The Fetid Air.

An Aphorism? Fire Without Flames. Understandable That No One Tries To Warm Himself At It.

No Matter Which Way We Go, It Is No Better Than Any Other. It Is All The Same Whether You Achieve Something Or Not, Have Faith Or Not, Just As It Is All The Same Whether You Cry Or Remain Silent.