It’s nice enough to make a man weep, but I don’t weep, do you?

I was so thin I could slice bread with my shoulderblades, only I seldom had bread.

We are hardly ever as strong as that which we create.

there is moss on the walls and the stain of thought and failure and waiting

I would certainly end up forever crying the blues into a coffee cup in a park for old men playing chess or silly games of some sort.

I have no time for things that have no soul.

The crowd is the gathering place of the weakest; true creation is a solitary act.