how is it a wonder then, when we be mad in blindness, that nothing could be stranger to men than silence and wisdom and kindness?
once mankind nailed love to a cross, trying to prove their might. Yet love was undefeated for it simply did not fight
may we, then, be keen and rather cut a little than fall and bruise to death; this universe listens to our follies as much as to our wisdom
a handsome man with shapely buttocks may steal food unpunished. Yet a carefree man outside the law is cursed to strange places and cannot find rest
maybe i'm a shithead drunk in illusion. yet if life is illusion, i can be no less and such the truth seems real to me: i know who i am, and who i may be, if i so choose
