I Talk In A Daze, I Walk

A Man Who Has Decided Upon Self-destruction Is Far Removed From Mundane Affairs, And To Sit Down And Write His Will Would Be, At That Moment, An Act Just As Absurd As Winding Up One’s Watch, Since Together With The Man, The Whole World Is Destroyed; The Last Letter Is Instantly Reduced To Dust And, With It, All The Postmen; And Like Smoke, Vanishes The Estate Bequeathed To A Nonexistent Progeny.

I Think It Is All A Matter Of Love: The More You Love A Memory, The Stronger And Stranger It Is.

Dear Jesus, Do Something.

For Better Or Worse, It Is The Commentator Who Has The Last Word.

I Cannot Disobey Something Which I Do Not Know And The Reality Of Which I Have The Right To Deny.