But a few choosing to venture deeper into the painful corridors of their affliction, found after a while that they could now grind and polish ever more exotic surfaces, hyperboloidial and even stranger, eventually including what we must term ‘imaginary’ shapes (which some preferred to term invisible).

To have humanism we must first be convinced of our humanity. As we move further into decadence this becomes more difficult.

All the animals, the plants, the minerals, even other kinds of men, are being broken and reassembled every day, to preserve an elite few, who are the loudest to theorize on freedom, but the least free of all.

Through the machineries of greed, pettiness, and the abuse of power, love occurs.

They plot, they plot, sleeping or afoot they never let up.

It all comes down, as it must, to the desires of individual men. Oh, and women too of course, bless their empty little heads.

Darkness invades the dreams of the glassblower. Of all the unpleasantries his dreams grab in out of the night air, an extinguished light is the worst. Light in his dreams, was always hope: the basic, moral hope. As the contacts break helically away, hope turns to darkness, and the glassblower wakes sharply tonight crying, "Who? Who?"