The bus roared on. I was going home in October. Everybody goes home in October.
The beauty of things must be that they end.
Genius gives birth, talent delivers. What Rembrandt or Van Gogh saw in the night can never be seen again.
It's only through form that we can realize emptiness
I didn't know what to say. I felt like crying, Goddammit everybody in the world wants an explanation for your acts and for your very being.
I promise I shall never give up, and that I'll die yelling & laughing.