I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live.
What you burnt, broke, and tore is still in my hands. I am the keeper of fragile things and I have kept of you what is indissoluble.
This diary is my kief, hashish and opium pipe. This is my drug and my vice.
I sleep with my feet on moss carpets, my branches in the cotton of the clouds.
Idealism is the death of the body and the imagination. All but freedom, utter freedom, is death
Since desire always goes towards that which is our direct opposite, it forces us to love that which will make us suffer.