Not once more will/I be found with beings/who swallowed the rail of life//And one day I found myself with beings/who swallowed the nail of life/-as soon as I lost my matrix mamma,//and the being twisted under him,/and god poured me back to her/(the motherfucker).

Without sarcasm I sink into chaos.

The true theater, because it moves and makes use of living instruments, continues to stir up shadows where life has never ceased to grope its way.

How hard is it, when everything encourages us to sleep, though we may look about us with conscious, clinging eyes, to wake and yet look about us as in a dream, with eyes that no longer know their function and whose gaze is turned inward.

Hell is of this world and there are men who are unhappy escapees from hell, escapees destined ETERNALLY to reenact their escape.

The actor is an athlete of the heart.

All writing is garbage. People who come out of nowhere to try and put into words any part of what goes on in their minds are pigs.