Surrealism is merely the reflection of the death process. It is one of the manifestations of a life becoming extinct, a virus which quickens the inevitable end.

The cancer of time is eating us away

Day by day. No yesterdays and no tomorrows. The barometer never changes, the flag is always at half-mast.

I am living at the Villa Borghese. There is not a crumb of dirt anywhere, nor a chair misplaced. We are all alone here and we are dead.

I had to learn to think, feel, and see in a totally new fashion, in an uneducated way, in my own way, which is the hardest thing in the world. I had to throw myself into the current, knowing that I would probably sink.

We are dancing in the hollow of nothingness. We are one flesh, but separated like stars.

I don't think we should read for instruction but to give our souls a chance to luxuriate.