I Keep My Hands Empty For The

Those Who Gave Away Their Wings Are Sad Not To See Them Fly.

Not Believing Has A Sickness Which Is Believing A Little.

When The Superficial Wearies Me, It Wearies Me So Much That I Need An Abyss In Order To Rest.

My Final Belief Is Suffering. And I Begin To Believe That I Do Not Suffer.

More Grievous Than Tears Is The Sight Of Them.