We are like sculptors, constantly carving out of others the image we long for, need, love or desire, often against reality, against their benefit, and always, in the end, a disappointment, because it does not fit them.

To lie, of course, is to engender insanity.

Tranquillity is contagious, peace is contagious. One only thinks of the contagiousness of illness, but there is the contagion of serenity and joy.

We did not touch each other. We were both leaning over the abyss.

I have this weird obsession about buying books and looking at them with a smile, even if I won't read them soon. At least they are mine now.

Everything with me is either worship and passion or pity and understanding. I hate rarely, though when I hate. I hate murderously.

I am an excitable person who only understands life lyrically, musically, in whom feelings are much stronger as reason.