This book's like black holes. It really engulfes you whole.
The artist's greatest creation beganthe night he washed his memory of his failuresrubbed opium on his lipsdrank the wine that women offered himand lay down and wept.
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The artist's greatest creation beganthe night he washed his memory of his failuresrubbed opium on his lipsdrank the wine that women offered himand lay down and wept.
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Whether consciousness is implanted in us by something divine, or whether it is created by the efforts of our brains, the end result is the same. We are.
And he was. Suddenly. From not being to being conscious that he was.
Nothingness is the basis of everything that exists today. It's the mother of creation & consciousness!
When a Wanderess has been caged, or perched with her wings clipped, She lives like a Stoic, She lives most heroic, smiling with ruby, moistened lips once her cup of Death is welcome sipped.
I pray you, do not fall in love with me, for I am falser than vows made in wine.