Dead voices, lost sounds, forgotten noises, vibrations lockstepping into the abyss and now too distant ever to be recaptured!...What sort of arrows would be able to transfix such birds?

There are some wounds that one can heal only by deepening them and making them worse.

Brunettes are full of electricity.

My own self-consciousness cries out to me coldly: how does one love zero?

I am a man who knows nothing, guesses sometimes, finds frequently and who's always amazed.

Every human occupation has it repertoire of stock phrases, within which every man twists and turn until his death. His vocabulary, which seems so lavish, reduces itself to a hundred routine formulas at most, which he repeats over and over.

Thoughts and feelings change sometimes, as one crosses the frontiers.