This work is a torture on the rump but a joy to the heart.

If the grape is made of wine, then perhaps we are the words that tell who we are

The world is organised by the war economy and the war culture.

Poets and beggars, musicians and prophets, warriors and scoundrels, all creatures of that unbridled reality, we have had to ask but little of our imagination, for our crucial problem has been a lack of conventional means to render our lives believable. This, my friends, is the crux of our solitude.

Memory. My poison, my food.

Celebration of the Human Voice--- When it is genuine, when it is born of the need to speak, no one can stop the human voice. When denied a mouth, it speaks with the hands or the eyes, or the pores, or anything at all. Because every single one of us has something to say to the others, something that deserves to be celebrated or forgiven by others.

I am quite prehistoric, absolutely prehistoric.