All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence.

And now I am ready to keep running When the sun rises beyond the borderlands of death. I already see mountain ridges in the heavenly forest Where, beyond every essence, a new essence awaits.

On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.

The history of my stupidity would fill many volumes.

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.

There was a time when only wise books were read helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics. And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.

The voice of passion is better than the voice of reason. The passionless cannot change history.