The Death Of A Man Is Like

Even If That Is So, There Will Remain A Word Wakened By Lips That Perish, A Tireless Messenger Who Runs And Runs Through Interstellar Fields, Through The Revolving Galaxies, And Calls Out, Protests, Screams.

Men Will Clutch At Illusions When They Have Nothing Else To Hold To.

It Is Sweet To Think I Was A Companion In An Expedition That Never Ends

It's True That What Is Morbid Is Highly Valued Today, And So You May Think That I Am Only Joking Or That I've Devised Just One More Means Of Praising Art With The Help Of Irony.

From Life, From The Apple Cut By The Flaming Knife, What Grain Will Be Saved? My Son, Believe Me, Nothing Remains, Only Adult Toil, The Furrow Of Fate In The Palm. Only Toil, Nothing More.