Everything Is False, Everything Is

Night Was A Very Different Matter. It Was Dense, Thicker Than The Very Walls, And It Was Empty, So Black, So Immense That Within It You Could Brush Against Appalling Things And Feel Roaming And Prowling Around A Strange, Mysterious Horror.

I Told Myself: 'i Am Surrounded By Unknown Things.' I Imagined Man Without Ears, Suspecting The Existence Of Sound As We Suspect So Many Hidden Mysteries, Man Noting Acoustic Phenomena Whose Nature And Provenance He Cannot Determine. And I Grew Afraid Of Everything Around Me – Afraid Of The Air, Afraid Of The Night. From The Moment We Can Know Almost Nothing, And From The Moment That Everything Is Limitless, What Remains? Does Emptiness Actually Not Exist? What Does Exist In This Apparent Emptiness?

The Public Is Composed Of Numerous Groups Whose Cry To Us Writers Is: 'comfort Me.' 'amuse Me.' 'touch My Sympathies.' 'make Me Sad.' 'make Me Dream.' 'make Me Laugh.' 'make Me Shiver.' 'make Me Weep.' 'make Me Think.'

There Is Only One Good Thing In Life, And That Is Love.

I Said, 'if Other Beings Besides Us Exist On Earth, Why Didn't We Meet Them A Long Time Ago?