he threw up his hands and wrote the Universe dont exist and died to prove it

Well, while I'm here I'll do the work — and what's the work? To ease the pain of living. Everything else, drunken dumbshow.

I don't think there is any truth. There are only points of view.

None of us understand what we're doing, but we do beautiful things anyway.

The soul is innocent and immortal, it should never die ungodly in an armed madhouse.

We love to be hurt and we love to have our unhealing wounds opened and reopened again: we sit staring in the mirror of art, fascinated by our own deformities.

Thank God I am not God! Thank God I am not God!