There is a fissure in my vision and madness will always rush through.

A big enough artist, I say, can eat anything, must eat everything and then alchemize it. Only the feeble writer is afraid of expansion.

I walk ahead of myself in perpetual expectancy of miracles.

You live like this, sheltered, in a delicate world, and you believe you are living.

I will not be just a tourist in the world of images, just watching images passing by which I cannot live in, make love to, possess as permanent sources of joy and ecstasy.

She walked in the shadow of Rango with a great feeling of being taken out of herself, of having no knowledge of what was happening to her, merely a pervading sense of flow.

A man who lives unrelated to other human beings dies. But a man who lives unrelated to himself also dies.