The Sun, The Hearth Of

I Saw That All Beings Are Fated To Happiness: Action Is Not Life, But A Way Of Wasting Some Force, An Enervation. Morality Is The Weakness Of The Brain.

True Life Is Elsewhere

I Wrote Silences; Nights; I Recorded The Unnameable.

It Was The Voice Of Mad Seas, Roaring Immense,/ That Shattered Your Infant Breast, Too Soft, Too Human.

I Am Alone In Possessing A Key To This Barbarous Sideshow.