To live strikes me as a metaphysical mistake of matter, a dereliction of inaction.
I feel as if I'm always on the verge of waking up.
The beauty of a naked body is felt only by the dressed races.
If life has given us no more than a prison cell, let's at least decorate it as best we can-with the shadows of our dreams, their colourful patterns engraving our oblivion on the static surface of the walls.
In the very corner of my soul there is an altar to a different god.
I crave time in all its duration, and I want to be myself unconditionally.