Wherever we go, we come up against the human, a repulsive ubiquity before which we fall into stupor and revolt, a perplexity on fire.

I do nothing, granted. But I see the hours pass - which is better than trying to fill them.

Pursued by our origins... we all are.

Is it possible that existence is our exile and nothingness our home?

I am the beast with a contorted grin, contracting down to illusion and dilating toward infinity, both growing and dying, delightfully suspended between hope for nothing and despair of everything, brought up among perfumes and poisons, consumed with love and hatred, killed by lights and shadows. My symbol is death of light and the flame of death. Sparks die in me only to be reborn as thunder and lightning. Darkness itself glows in me.

Man starts over again everyday, in spite of all he knows, against all he knows.

Maniacs of Procreation, bipeds with devalued faces, we have lost all appeal for each other.