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 can’t let you go now. I want to go places with you; obscure little places, just to be able to say: here I came with her.

What a mystery this is, desire. The love sickness, the sensitivity, the obsession, the flutter of the heart, the ebb and flow of the blood. There is no drug and no alcohol to equal it.

We travel, some of us forever, to seek other states, other lives, other souls.

To love and to labor is the sum of living.

He does not need opium. He has the gift of reverie.

In chaos, there is fertility.