The human bones are but vain lines dawdling, the whole universe a blank mold of stars.
Somewhere along the line, the pearl would be handed to me.
I'm writing this book because we're all going to die.
It is possible for the human spirit to win after all.
The beauty of things must be that they end.
Between incomprehensible and incoherent sits the madhouse. I am not in the madhouse.