For I Am The Size Of What

Destiny Gave Me Only Two Things: A Few Accounting Books And The Gift Of Dreaming.

The Perfect Man Of Pagans Was The Perfection Of The Man There Is; The Perfect Man Of Christians, The Perfection Of The Man There Isn't; The Buddhists' Perfect Man, The Perfection Of Not Existing A Man.

God Wills, Man Dreams, The Work Is Born.

Property Isn't Theft: It's Nothing.

We Almost Always Live Outside Ourselves, And Life Itself Is A Continual Dispersion. But It's Towards Ourselves That We Tend, As Towards A Centre Around Which, Like Planets, We Trace Absurd And Distant Ellipses.