We derive our vitality from our store of madness.
Every thought should recall the ruin of a smile.
We change ideas like neckties.
We have lost, being born, as much as we shall lose dying: Everything!
As art sinks into paralysis, artists multiply. This anomaly ceases to be one if we realize that art, on its way to exhaustion, has become both impossible and easy.
My mission is to kill time, and time's to kill me in its turn. How comfortable one is among murderers.