Lunatics are writers whose works write them.
A half-read book is a half-finished love affair.
Humans live in a pit of cheating, exploiting, hurting, incarcerating. Every time, the species wastes some part of what it could be. This waste is poisonous.
Go to hell, Willy, our souls eat poetry, but one has seven deadly sins to feed!
Always, it is the poor people who pay. And always, it is the poor people's women who pay the most.
One cannot pass by without thinking of the density of men in the ground.