great writers are indecent people they live unfairly saving the best part for paper. good human beings save the world so that bastards like me can keep creating art, become immortal. if you read this after I am dead it means I made it.

I have one problem, I don’t hate people. They disgust me and I want to get away from them. I do not have hatred. I have an escape mechanism.

It is possible to be truly mad and to still exist upon scraps of life.

I am aware that a computer can’t create a poem, but neither can a typewriter.

I don't like jail, they got the wrong kind of bars in there.

and love is a word used too much and much too soon.

The trouble with a mask is it never changes