Truths begin by a conflict with the police - and end by calling them in.

What to think of other people? I ask myself this question each time I make a new acquaintance. So strange does it seem to me that we exist, and that we consent to exist.

We define only out of despair, we must have a formula... to give a facade tot he void.

Tears do not burn except in solitude.

Every thought derives from a thwarted sensation.

My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.

I'm simply an accident. Why take it all so seriously?