My Soul Travels On The

There Is No More Steely Barb Than That Of The Infinite.

On The Vaporization And The Centralization Of The Self. All Is There.

Life Swarms With Innocent Monsters.

Love Is A Taste For Prostitution. In Fact, There Is No Noble Pleasure That Cannot Be Reduced To Prostitution.

To The Solemn Graves, Near A Lonely Cemetery, My Heart Like A Muffled Drum Is Beating Funeral Marches.