Prisons! Prisons! Prisons, Dungeons, Blessed Places Where

Erotic Play Discloses A Nameless World Which Is Revealed By The Nocturnal Language Of Lovers. Such Language Is Not Written Down. It Is Whispered Into The Ear At Night In A Hoarse Voice. At Dawn It Is Forgotten.

To Achieve Harmony In Bad Taste Is The Height Of Elegance.

In Order To Weep, I Had Descended To The Realm Of The Dead Themselves, To Their Secret Chambers, Led By The Invisible But Soft Hands Of Birds Down Stairways Which Were Folded Up Again As I Advanced. I Displayed My Grief In The Friendly Fields Of Death, Far From Men: Within Myself.

Men Endowed With A Wild Imagination Should Have, In Addition, The Great Poetic Faculty Of Denying Our Universe And Its Values So That They May Act Upon It With Sovereign Ease.

It's A True Image, Born Of A False Spectacle.