That’s what existence means: draining one’s own self dry without the sense of thirst.

For common minds have an ugly ability to perceive in the deepest and richest saying nothing but their own everyday opinion.

What the painter adds to the canvas are the days of his life. The adventure of living, hurtling toward death.

Criticism often takes from the tree caterpillars and blossoms together.

I am myself and I am here.

Don't you feel the same way? When I cannot see myself, even though I touch myself, I wonder if I really exist.

Everything that exists is born for no reason, carries on living through weakness, and dies by accident