My blood is a miracle that, from my veins, crosses the air in my heart into yours.

I have never expected anything from my work but the satisfaction I could get from it by the very fact of painting and saying what I couldn't say otherwise.

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.”

I think that little by little I'll be able to solve my problems and survive.

I must fight with all my strength so that the little positive things that my health allows me to do might be pointed toward helping the revolution. The only real reason for living.

What would I do without the absurd and the ephemeral?

Tragedy is the most ridiculous thing.