When Chaos Is The God

Painters Ought To Be Mute. Speech Is The Enemy Of Expression.

Wholeness Is The Enemy Of The Artist. We Ought To Be Broken, Ruined In Some Way.

Maybe There Are Only Three Kinds Of Stories: Those We Live, Those We Tell, And Those That Help Our Souls Fly Upwards To A Greater Life.

There Is A Kind Of Expressed Love Which Is Easy To Subvert. When A Figure Is Loved For Their Deeds, Their Conquests, Their Heroism, Their Goodness, Their Love Of The People, These Are Easy Enough To Destroy... But There Is A Kind Of Love Which Is Felt For Apparently No Reason... A Love, Inspired, It Seems, By The Gods, Which It Is Impossible To Fight, Distort, Destroy, Or Weaken. In Fact, The Attempts To Destroy Such Loves Only Strengthen Them. And To Do Nothing Allows Them To Continue To Grow At Their Natural Pace, Inexoribly, Till This Love Becomes A Wide And Silent Adoration.

A Man Must Be Able To Hold His Drink Because Drunkenness Is Sometimes Necessary In This Difficult Life.