You carry away with you a reflection of me, a part of me. I dreamed you; I wished for your existence. You will always be a part of my life. If I love you, it must be because we shared, at some moment, the same imaginings, the same madness, the same stage.

I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.

Create a world, your world. Alone. Stand alone. And then love will come to you, then it comes to you.

And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

When your beauty struck me, it dissolved me. Deep down, I am not different from you. I dreamed you, I wished for your existence. I see in you that part of me which is you. I surrender my sincerity because if I love you it means we share the same fantasies, we share the same madness.

It is the function of art to renew our perception. What we are familiar with we cease to see. The writer shakes up the familiar scene, and, as if by magic, we see a new meaning in it.

Shame is the lie someone told you about yourself.