A corpse is what's left after waking too often.

Artists are the monks of the bourgeois state.

But here's the worst part: the trick to life lies in hiding from those we hold most dear how much they mean to is; if not, we'd lose them.

One does not kill oneself for love of a woman, but because love - any love - reveals us in our nakedness, our misery, our vulnerability, our nothingness.

One stops being a child when one realizes that telling one's trouble does not make it any better.

Reality is a prison, where one vegetates and always will.

The cadence of suffering has begun. Every evening at dusk, my heart constricts until night has come.