Sometimes in my blogs I write things of such beauty that they’re utterly perfect. Only I can’t leave them here because they terrify me. It’s almost an unbearable loss. But of course these things haven’t disappeared altogether; they still live somewhere inside me.
Hate is the most beautiful thing known to man — so beautiful that, in fact, as is the case with the sun itself, one can’t look at it directly without somehow injuring oneself. And so, everyone does his best not to see it. Even when perceived peripherally, though, every person can sense something of its majesty, of its baroque unity, its focus, its mercury-and-platinum will.
Hate is the heaviest of industries, littered across the continuum without bound, steely, smooth, and perfect in the sunlight, ready for the smiles of six billion children.
Forever at heart, I am four years old.
Forever at heart, I am throwing a tantrum and vomiting on the shoes of my elders.