But my sadness is comforting Because it’s right and natural And because it’s what the soul should feel When it already thinks it exists And the hand pick flowers And the soul takes no notice.

Why is art beautiful? Because it's useless. Why is life ugly? Because it's all ends and purposes and intentions.

Could it think, the heart would stop beating.

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.

I'm a man for whom the outside world is an inner Reality.

Let us sculpt in hopeless silence all our dreams of speaking.

I enjoy wording. Words for me are tangible bodies, visible sirens, incarnate sensualities.