I enjoy inventing things out of fun. After all, life is a game, not a career.

Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody. "Your very own words," indeed ! And who are you?

As no two people see the world the same way, all trips from here to there are imaginary; all truth is a tale I am telling myself.

Man is a bad animal.

Of course the sands of Present Time are running out from under our feet. And why not? The Great Conundrum: 'What are we here for?' is all that ever held us here in the first place. Fear. The answer to the Riddle of the Ages has actually been out in the street since the First Step in Space. Who runs may read but few people run fast enough. What are we here for? Does the great metaphysical nut revolve around that? Well, I'll crack it for you, right now. What are we here for? We are here to go!

The poets are supposed to liberate the words – not chain them in phrases. Who told the poets they were supposed to think? Poets are meant to sing and to make words sing. Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody? 'Your very own words,' indeed! And who are you?

Writing is fifty years behind painting.