Για μένα, ένα βιβλίο είναι ένα μήνυμα από τους θεούς προς την ανθρωπότητα. Αν δεν είναι έτσι, καλύτερα να μην εκδοθεί ποτέ. - Aleister Crowley

His own infinity becomes zero in relation to that of the least fragment of the solid. He hardly exists at all. Trillions multiplies by trillions of trillions of such as he could not cross the frontier even of breadth, the idea which he came to guess at only because he felt himself bound by some mysterious power.

When Celia cums, 'tis earthquake hour
The bed vibrates like kettledrums
It is a grand display of power
when Celia cums.

An up exhales a greasy stench
for which you curse the careless wench;
so things which must not be exprest,
when plumpt into the reeking chest,
send up an excremental smell
to taint the parts from whence they fell
the petticoats and gown perfume
which waft a stink around every room
thus finishing his grand survey
disgusted Strephon stole away
repeating his amorous fits

Oh! Celia, Celia, Celia shits!

Your friends will notice at once that glib vacuities fail to impress, and hate you, and tell lies about you. It's worth it.