The power of death signifies that this real world can only have a neutral image of life, that life's intimacy does not reveal it's dazzling consumption until the moment it gives out.

Indeed, the direction of the future is only there in order to elude us.

Incredible nervous state, trepidation beyond words: to be this much in love is to be sick (and I love to be sick).

The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth.

We want to decipher skies and paintings, go behind these starry backgrounds or these painted canvases and, like kids trying to find a gap in a fence, try to look through the cracks in the world.

Sovereignty, loyalty, and solitude.

The owl flies, in the moonlight, over a field where the wounded cry out. Like the owl, I fly in the night over my own misfortune.