Art is amoral, whether we accept this or not; it does not take sides. The finest fictions are cold at heart.
The past beats inside me like a second heart.
Life is tragic but it's equally comic.
We think we're living in the present, but we're really living in the past.
Sleep is uncanny, I have always found it so, a nightly dress-rehearsal for being dead.
Enormous morning, ponderous, meticulous; gray light streaking each bare branch, each single twig, along one side, making another tree, of glassy veins.