If surrealism ever comes to adopt a particular line of moral conduct, it has only to accept the discipline that Picasso has accepted and will continue to accept.

We all love conflagrations. When the sky changes color, it is a dead man's passing.

Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.

Beauty will be convulsive or will not be at all.

The clouds were disappearing rapidly, leaving the stars to die. The night dried up.

Every time you date someone with an issue that you have to work to ignore, you're settling.

Who am I? If this once I were to rely on a proverb, then perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom I 'haunt.'