He lies like a book. And he reads a lot of books.
Art and order, the relatives that refuse to relate.
It could draw from a greater reservoir of freedom. The irony could develop an even greater ease.
Love points the way. Desire is its ignorant advisor.
Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.
I think isolation is one of the greatest problems, an ever-growing obstacle to political solidarity.