He's not human; he's an empty space disguised as a human.
I think we are just insects, we live a bit and then die and that’s the lot. There’s no mercy in things. There’s not even a Great Beyond. There’s nothing.
If anything might hurt her, silence would; and I wanted to hurt her.
The supposed great misery of our century is the lack of time.
If you want to be true to life, start lying about it
To write poetry and to commit suicide, apparently so contradictory, had really been the same, attempts at escape.