Let’s not even touch life with the tips of our fingers.

Let’s not even love in our minds.

May we never know the feel of a woman’s kiss, not even in our dreams.

Artisans of morbidity, let us excel in teaching others how to cast off all illusions. Spectators of life, let us peer over all walls, with the pre-weariness of knowing that we’ll see nothing new or beautiful.

Weavers of despair, let us weave only shrouds – white shrouds for the dreams we never dreamed, black shrouds for the days that we died, grey shrouds for the gestures we merely dreamed, and royal purple shrouds for our useless sensations.

On the hills and in the valleys and along swampy ..... shores, hunters hunt wolves, deer, and wild ducks. Let us hate them, not because they kill but because they enjoy themselves (and we don’t).

May our facial expression consist of a wan smile, like that of someone who’s about to cry, a far-away gaze, like that of someone who doesn’t want to see, and a disdain in all its features, as when someone despises life and lives only to despise it.

And may our disdain be for those who work and struggle, and our hatred for those who hope and trust.