I took a straight picture that made me look like a thirty-year-old Italian who'd kill anybody who said something against his mother.
I'm Catholic and I can't commit suicide, but I plan to drink myself to death.
Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.
If you dont [sic] say what you want, what's the sense of writing?
And still the Void is still and'll never move - But I will be the Void, moving without having moved.
This was a manuscript of the night we couldn’t read.