We are all geniuses when we dream.
Music is the refuge of souls ulcerated by happiness.
Woes and wonders of power, that tonic hell, synthesis of poison and panacea.
I dream of a language whose words, like fists, would fracture jaws.
What pride to discover that nothing belongs to you - what a revelation.
Imaginary pains are by far the most real we suffer, since we feel a constant need for them and invent them because there is no way of doing without them.