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.

I am away from home and must always write home, even if any home of mine has long since floated away into eternity.

Should I be grateful or should I curse the fact that despite all misfortune I can still feel love, an unearthly love but still for earthly objects.

Slept, awoke, slept, awoke, miserable life.

Only the moment counts. It determines life.

Books are a narcotic.

Please — consider me a dream.