I cheat him, I deceive him, yet the world does not sink in sulphur-colored mists. Madness conquers. I can no longer put my mosaics together. I just cry and laugh.

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

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

destruction is ultimately self-destruction.

Love never dies a natural death. It dies because we don't know how to replenish its source.

I write emotional algebra.

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.