Write. Write until it stops hurting.

What can I do with my happiness? How can I keep it, conceal it, bury it where I may never lose it? I want to kneel as it falls over me like rain, gather it up with lace and silk, and press it over myself again.

When I don't write, I feel my world shrink. I lose my fire, my color.

All those who try to unveil the mysteries always have tragic lives. At the end they are always punished.

The only transformer and alchemist that turns everything into gold is love. The only magic against death, aging, ordinary life, is love.

You are the only woman who ever answered the demands of my imagination.

This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice.