Feelings Are Never True. They Play With

The Desert Is A Natural Extension Of The Inner Silence Of The Body. If Humanity's Language, Technology, And Buildings Are An Extension Of Its Constructive Faculties, The Desert Alone Is An Extension Of Its Capacity For Absence, The Ideal Schema Of Humanity's Disappearance.

Illusion Is No Longer Possible, Because The Real Is No Longer Possible.

Every Woman Is Like A Time-zone. She Is A Nocturnal Fragment Of Your Journey. She Brings You Unflaggingly Closer To The Next Night.

Perhaps Our Eyes Are Merely A Blank Film Which Is Taken From Us After Our Deaths To Be Developed Elsewhere And Screened As Our Life Story In Some Infernal Cinema Or Dispatched As Microfilm Into The Sidereal Void.

We Are No Longer Dealing With Historical Events, But With Places Of Collapse.