Never mistake talking about writing for actual writing.

The more ups and downs, the more joy I feel. The greater the fear, the greater the happiness I feel.

I came to a point where I needed solitude and just stop the machine of ‘thinking’ and ‘enjoying’ what they call ‘living’, I just wanted to lie in the grass and look at the clouds.

Books, shmooks, this sickness has got me wishing if I can ever get out of this I'll gladly become a millworker and shut my big mouth.

It's only through form that we can realize emptiness

And the Hippos were boiled in their tanks!

Who can leap the world's ties and sit with me among white clouds?