It is not a function of a presumption to presume

 

the generally improbable;

 

 

thereof one must be silent.

 

 

For we are unhappy pigs,

 

and our loftiest arts nothing but

 

mood-congruent perversions.

 

 

We have amazed by our deep sufferings the thing itself,

 

the perfect vehicle for dramatizing

 

the subtle permutations of an era

 

preoccupied with private liberation.

 

 

Art weighs down the thinker’s heart

 

and creates in populations a longing forever

 

to bite and devour.

 

 

The sky is still a black void,

 

intermixing private, political and universal instrumentation

 

to penetrate events:

 

 

It has a lot of information.