Who says there is no God? And who says who I am? Who, looking around, tells me what pain is?
Who, walking on illusion, distinguishes between hate and love?
Who puts the borders is the maker of the lowest instincts and also multiplier of the highest distinctions Of the homicidal principle, of the end of suicide Of the different destiny and the different way of the labyrinth with doors, of the alley with exit, of the blind street with a view, of a communist country, of the reality of utopia, of the crossroads without any track, of the eternity with a minute's clock of pain, of the sovereignty of the love of the slave nation, of the omnipresent distance, Of the omnipotent weakness, of the omniscient ignorance, of the faithful brute of the deceased Caesar, of the burning fire of a bored Neron, Of singing without letters, or expressing without words, Of the plain with mountains and paradise without flowers. Of Great Britain without Scotland and the sea with roads From me without you.
