I had no Freedom. I had nothing.

When a writer is swayed with his fame and his fortune, you can float him down the river with the turds.

Her eyes always had a frantic, lost look. He could never cure her eyes of that.

Where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die.

People were interesting at first. Then later, slowly but surely, all the flaws and madness would manifest themselves. I would become less and less to them; they would mean less and less to me.

Art is its own excuse, and it's either Art or it's something else. It's either a poem or a piece of cheese.

Why did I come here? I thought. Why is it always only a matter of choosing between something bad and something worse?