the sky is as blue as old blots of ink

those little gnats just act like stars

the night's darkness is ash from forest fires

clouds are nothing more than cigarette smoke

trees are only shacks of worms

burning inferno is what gullibles call warming sun

our world has no confidence but secret alliances

sympathy is simply self-interest

love is a concept built up from authors with too much fantasy

our babies are genitic puppets

our hearts are bloody, unconscious organic items

we are so good at lying and betraying