What Does The Future, That Half Of

The Task Of The Solitary Man Is To Be Even More Solitary.

No One Recovers From The Disease Of Being Born, A Deadly Wound If There Ever Was One.

History Is Nothing But A Procession Of False Absolutes, A Series Of Temples Raised To Pretexts, A Degradation Of The Mind Before The Improbable.

The Fear Of Your Own Solitude, Of Its Vast Surface And Its Infinity… Remorse Is The Voice Of Solitude. And What Does This Whispering Voice Say? Everything In Us That Is Not Human Anymore.

I Dream Of A Language Whose Words, Like Fists, Would Fracture Jaws.