I just wrote what I felt like writing since they seemed to sell.

I suffer from a spiritual malaise which manifests itself in outbursts of vicious rage.

Beauty compelled admiration and erotic yearning; such was its organic function. But never by itself could it command love.

In the end, death came uniformly to all, and all extracted as much satisfaction from their dying as this essentially graceless process could afford.

Why make plans? The sun might well go out tomorrow.

Human interactions, stimulated as they are by disequilibrium, never achieve balance. In even the most favorable transaction, one party whether he realizes it or not must always come out the worse.

The void is a mouth crying to be filled, a blank mind aching for thought, a cavity desperate for shape. What is not implies what is.