She Was Like Marat Only With Nobody

The Thought, When Written Down, Becomes Less Oppressive, But Some Thoughts Are Like A Cancerous Tumor: You Express Is, You Excise It, And It Grows Back Worse Than Before.

Loneliness As A Situation Can Be Corrected, But As A State Of Mind It Is An Incurable Illness.

We Are Most Artistically Caged.

And This Is The Only Immortality You And I May Share, My Lolita.

I Am Surrounded By Some Sort Of Wretched Specters, Not By People. They Torment Me As Can Torment Only Senseless Visions, Bad Dreams, Dregs Of Delirium, The Drivel Of Nightmares And Everything That Passes Down Here For Real Life.