Convalescence. Such an utter weakness that you lie like an animal hibernating, playing possum. You float. You are adrift. Every current is stronger than you.

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.

The suppression of inner patterns in favor of patterns created by society is dangerous to us.

Societies in decline have no use for visionaries.

Either one fails in one's art or in one's life.

I love the abstract, delicate, profound, vague, voluptuously wordless sensation of living ecstatically.

Creation which cannot express itself becomes madness.