History - The Devil's Scripture

Where Are The Forms The Sculptor's Soul Hath Seized? In Him Alone, Can Nature Show As Fair?

No Ear Can Hear Nor Tongue Can Tell The Tortures Of The Inward Hell!

But What Is Hope? Nothing But The Paint On The Face Of Existence; The Least Touch Of Truth Rubs It Off, And Then We See What A Hollow-cheeked Harlot We Have Got Hold Of.

Kill A Man's Family, And He May Brook It, But Keep Your Hands Out Of His Breeches' Pocket.

Think'st Thou Existence Doth Depend On Time? It Doth; But Actions Are Our Epochs.