Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.

It could draw from a greater reservoir of freedom. The irony could develop an even greater ease.

As is said about most writers: on the one hand all I ever did from when I was a child was read, and I was a loner, which was furthered by my parents and my upbringing.

I cannot stand public attention, I just can't. Of course, if I may I might write something instead

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.

Strictly speaking, there are no holidays for art; art pursues you everywhere, and that's just fine with the artist.

Anna despises two classes of people: first, those who own their own homes and have cars and families, and second, everybody else. Constantly she is on the verge of exploding. With rage. A pool of pure red. The pool is filled with speechlessness that talks away at her nonstop.