Shakespeare; the only man I'd ever love.

There is no such thing as justice, all the best that we can hope for is revenge.

I'm bipolar, but I'm not crazy, and I never was. I'm stark raving sane.

Thank you. It used to be knee length, but then I discovered that when I get angry I like to cut things. I'm not allowed to have scissors any more. It's still pretty lengthy, but I've been threatening to shave half of it for the past week and nobody seems to believe me... I do it all myself though because I scream when I'm touched and that scares people.

History written in pencil is easily erased, but crayon is forever.

Life is not like Gloomy Sunday, with a second ending when the people are disturbed.

Why can I never go back to bed? Who's is the voice ringing in my head? Where is the sense in these desperate dreams? Why should I wake when I'm half past dead?