I don’t like the gringos at all. They are very boring and all have faces like unbaked rolls.

Really, I do not know whether my paintings are surrealist or not, but I do know that they are the frankest expression of myself.

I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

... there is a skeleton (or death) that flees terrified in the face of my will to live.

Can one invent verbs? I want to tell you one: I sky you, so my wings extend so large to love you without measure.

You loved a man with more hands than a parade of beggars, and here you stand. Heart like a four-poster bed. Heart like a canvas. Heart leaking something so strong they can smell it in the street.”

What would I do without the absurd and the ephemeral?