Wasting time has an esthetics to it.

Decadence is the total loss of unconsciousness, which is the very basis of life. Could it think, the heart would stop beating.

No intelligent idea can gain general acceptance unless some stupidity is mixed in with it.

Whenever someone tells me he dreamed, I wonder if he realizes that he has never done anything but dream.

And leaning out the window, enjoying the day above the varying volume of the entire city, only one thought swells my soul – the intimate will to die, to finish, not to see more light over any city, not to think, not to feel, to leave behind like wrapping paper the course of the sun and the days, to rid myself, at the edge of the grand bed, as of a heavy suit, of the involuntary effort to be.

I am the outskirts of some non-existent town, the long-winded prologue to an unwritten book. I'm nobody, nobody. I don't know how to feel or think or love. I'm a character in a novel as yet unwritten, hovering in the air and undone before I've even existed, amongst the dreams of someone who never quite managed to breath life into me.

Let's absurdify life, from east to west. Let us play hide-and-seek with our consciousness of living.