I guess we often get the deep blues, both of us, and wonder what it all means- the people, the buildings, the day by day things, the waste of time, of ourselves.
The wisest thing to do if youโre living in hell is to make yourself comfortable.
Why do you insist upon destroying yourself?
There's no way I can stop writing, it's a form of insanity.
Where some god pissed a rain of reason to make things grow only to die.
Insanity is relative. Who sets the norm?