When the rich wage war, it's the poor who die.
Once freedom lights its beacon in man's heart, the gods are powerless against him.
Time is too large, it can't be filled up. Everything you plunge into it is stretched and disintegrates.
I am alone in this white, garden-rimmed street. Alone and free. But this freedom is rather like death.
Little flashes of sun on the surface of a cold, dark sea.
Nothing happens while you live. The scenery changes, people come in and go out, that's all. There are no beginnings. Days are tacked on to days without rhyme or reason, an interminable, monotonous addition.