Life Is Nothing But A

Just Because Life's Meaningless Doesn't Mean We Can't Experience It Meaningfully.

I'm Too Conceited For Therapy.

Pain Is Beyond Reason, An Obliterating Giant Stupidity To Which All Your History Of Jokes And Nuance And Ideas And Caresses Is Nothing, Simply Nothing.

This Is Love: You Stop Bothering About The Universal, The General, Get Sucked Instead Into The Local And Particular: When Will I See Her Again? What Shall We Do Today? Do You Like These Shoes? Theory And Reflection Are Delicate Old Uncles Bustled Out Of The Way By The Boisterous Nephews Action And Desire. Themes Evaporate, Only Plot Remains.

One Knows One's Madnesses, By And Large. By And Large The Knowledge Is Vacuous. The Notion Of Naming The Beast To Conquer It Is The Idiot Optimism Of Psychotherapy.