Sunday, the day for the language of leisure.
He lies like a book. And he reads a lot of books.
I think isolation is one of the greatest problems, an ever-growing obstacle to political solidarity.
Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.
Every day, a piece of music, a short story, or a poem dies because its existence is no longer justified in our time. And things that were once considered immortal have become mortal again, no one knows them anymore. Even though they deserve to survive.
Vice is basically the love of failure.