... and the very folds of the curtains contained secrets and sighs.

Where the myth fails, human love begins. Then we love a human being, not our dream, but a human being with flaws.

I'm sick of my own romanticism!

I write emotional algebra.

I am aware of being in a beautiful prison, from which I can only escape by writing.

When I don't write, I feel my world shrink. I lose my fire, my color.

Creation which cannot express itself becomes madness.