The purpose of a story is to be an axe that breaks up the ice within us.
Every revolution evaporates and leaves behind only the slime of a new bureaucracy.
Every thing that you love, you will eventually lose, but in the end, love will return in a different form.
All language is but a poor translation.
Art flies around truth, but with the definite intention of not getting burnt. Its capacity lies in finding in the dark void a place where the beam of light can be intensely caught, without this having been perceptible before.
May I kiss you then? On this miserable paper? I might as well open the window and kiss the night air.