To Him Who Has Nothing

Art Has Nothing To Do With Clarity, Does Not Dabble In The Clear And Does Not Make Clear

The Tears Stream Down My Cheeks From My Unblinking Eyes. What Makes Me Weep So? There Is Nothing Saddening Here. Perhaps It Is Liquefied Brain.

How Hideous Is The Semicolon.

Estragon: What About Hanging Ourselves? Vladimir: Hmm. It'd Give Us An Erection.

It Is Right That He Too Should Have His Little Chronicle, His Memories, His Reason, And Be Able To Recognize The Good In The Bad, The Bad In The Worst, And So Grow Gently Old Down All The Unchanging Days, And Die One Day Like Any Other Day, Only Shorter.