Twentieth pupil of the centuries knows its stuff and bird-changed this century like Jesus climbs the sky.
We cannot carry our father's corpse with us everywhere we go.
In this mirror, I am enclosed a live and real as you. Imagine angels and not like the reflections.
I don't want to work. I want to smoke.
I sing the joy of wandering and the pleasure of the wanderer's death
I hate artists who are not of their time.