In the name of Bacon will you chicken me up that egg.
Shall I swallow cave-phantoms?

Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

We are all born mad. Some remain so.

There's man all over for you, blaming on his boots the fault of his feet.

The old endless chain of love, tolerance, indifference, aversion and disgust

The tears stream down my cheeks from my unblinking eyes. What makes me weep so? There is nothing saddening here. Perhaps it is liquefied brain.