To Come Under Siege Was The Inevitable

Ask What Infinity Might Produce And The Only Answer Possible Was, "anything." Any Good, Any Evil; Any God, Any Devil.

Any Road Followed Precisely To Its End Leads Precisely Nowhere.

Words Are Such Gross Machinery, So Primitive And Ambiguous.

We Never Get Far From Wealth And All Of Its Masks When We Deal With Power.

Producing Perfection From Imperfection Is, After All, The Highest Of Art Forms.