Metaphors Are Our Way Of

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.

We Interpret Life At Moments Of The Deepest Desperation.

…i Realized My Happiness Was Artificial. I Felt Happy Because I Saw The Others Were Happy And Because I Knew I Should Feel Happy, But I Wasn't Really Happy.

Jesus Is The Masterpiece. The Thieves Are Minor Works. Why Are They There? Not To Frame The Crucifixion, As Some Innocent Souls Believe, But To Hide It.

Literature + Illness = Illness