When we blindly adopt a religion, a political system, a literary dogma, we become automatons. We cease to grow.

We cannot cure the evils of politics with politics.

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

I see enormous loves growing immense and finally crushing me.

Now that I am moving, I am afraid. Where am I going?

The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.

To change skins, evolve into new cycles, I feel one has to learn to discard. If one changes internally one should not continue to live with the same objects. They reflect one's mind and psyche of yesterday. I throw away what has no dynamic, living use.