There are two ways to reach me: by way of kisses or by way of the imagination. But there is a hierarchy: the kisses alone don't work.

I postpone death by living, by suffering, by error, by risking, by giving, by losing.

I’m restless. Things are calling me away. My hair is being pulled by the stars again.

Strange, isn't it, that no chemical will give a human being the iridescence that illusions have given them? Give me your hat.

The artist is the only one who knows that the world is a subjective creation, that there is a choice to be made, a selection of elements.

I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles.

Introspection is a devouring monster. You have to feed it with much material, much experience, many people, many places, many loves, many creations, and then it ceases feeding on you.