As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.

I've often lost myself, in order to find the burn that keeps everything awake

To burn with desire and keep quiet about it is the greatest punishment we can bring on ourselves.

With their souls of patent leather, they come down the road. Hunched and nocturnal, where they breathe they impose, silence of dark rubber, and fear of fine sand.

Everyone understands the pain that accompanies death, but genuine pain doesn't live in the spirit, nor in the air, nor in our lives, nor on these terraces of billowing smoke. The genuine pain that keeps everything awake is a tiny, infinite burn on the innocent eyes of other systems.

I know there is no straight road No straight road in this world Only a giant labyrinth Of intersecting crossroads

At the heart of all great art is an essential melancholy.