It is the illusion of all lovers to think themselves unique and their words immortal.
Moralists have no place in an art gallery.
People bring to what they see and feel, the inner weather of their souls and complexion of their minds.
All humans are frightened of their own solitude. But only in solitude can we learn to know ourselves, learn to handle our own eternal aloneness.
People never think about words, they only feel them.
With some people there is such a thing as the habit of betrayal.