Book: Necrophiliac

Did I? Oblivion is the insensitivity, it's the stupidity of the body and soul, did I, that every time you fall in love without looking back?

... I was extremely happy. Incredibly, however, not absolutely, because for me the joy does not exist without sadness from the sense of its ephemeral nature, and every happiness carries within itself the grain of its end.

I'm sad because I always have to part with loved ones.

Love her marked some composure.

Any possibility of continually multiplied exponentially, every event varies, countless times. Combination, devices, poglazhivanie events to each other are born one from another, as branches of palm trees, like bunches of fireworks, as the explosions of unknown galaxies, they can be Forever.

Death: the word deserves closer consideration, halfway between the hypocrisy of the dictionary and its profound meaning.

Necrophiliac love - the only pure and unselfish, for even a large white rose amor intellectualis waiting for themselves rewards in return. On the contrary, the necrophiliac love is always unrequited, and the gift that he brings to his subject, cannot cause a counter-impulse.

The ticking of the pendulums, the crackling of the floorboards has acquired a special significance, as always in the presence of Death. Death is the great mathematician, because it reports the exact value of the data of the problem.

My angels turn into a rainbow. How beautiful they are! Their Union Trionfo della Morte.

I wanted to live and wanted to die, but can neither die, nor live. Isn't the garden of Gethsemane?

Did I not say that the dead always left a surprise? They are so kind, these dead...

One shopper said this morning about the Portuguese sailor trunk of the XVII century: "How beautiful! Similar to the coffin!" And I bought it.

I would have loved you, rolled your eyes, your mute lips, your ice member, if only you were dead. Unfortunately, you have so bad taste that you are still alive.