Dreams are essential to life.

Don't let one cloud obliterate the whole sky.

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

You are the poet, you walk inside my dreams.

While analyzing so many people I realized the constant need of a mother, or a father, or a god (the same thing) is really immaturity. It is a childish need, a human need, but so universal that I can see how it gave birth to all religions.

In the world of the dreamer there was solitude: all the exaltations and joys came in the moment of preparation for living. They took place in solitude. But with action came anxiety, and the sense of insuperable effort made to match the dream, and with it came weariness, discouragement, and the flight into solitude again. And then in solitude, in the opium den of remembrance, the possibility of pleasure again.

We have been poisoned by fairy tales.