However Depressed I May Be I Am

Civilization Is What Makes You Sick.

Art = A Mad Search For Individualism.

Life Is Merely A Fraction Of A Second. An Infinitely Small Amount Of Time To Fulfill Our Desires, Our Dreams, Our Passions.

The Missionary Is No Longer A Man, A Conscience. He Is A Corpse, In The Hands Of A Confraternity, Without Family, Without Love, Without Any Of The Sentiments That Are Dear To Us. Emasculated, In A Sense, By His Vow Of Chastity, He Offers Us The Distressing Spectacle Of A Man Deformed And Impotent Or Engaged In A Stupid And Useless Struggle With The Sacred Needs Of The Flesh, A Struggle Which, Seven Times Out Of Ten, Leads Him To Sodomy, The Gallows, Or Prison.

Out In The Sun, Some Painters Are Lined Up. The First Is Copying Nature, The Second Is Copying The First, The Third Is Copying The Second... You See The Sequence.