Comfort is beauty muted by heroin. Sadness is beauty drained by lack of it.

I will meet you on the nape of your neck one day, on the surface of intention, word becoming act. We will breathe into each other the high mountain tales, where the snows come from, where the waters begin.” -In the yellow time of pollen

Comfort is beauty muted by heroin. Sadness is beauty drained by lack of it.

When you think you are in love, you don't want to know about the things that could end it.

Some people are attracted to sickness, to the kind of madness where sparks fly off the head, to the incoherence of despair, masked by nervous energy, which winds up looking like bewildered joy.

The very concept of solid ground is a myth. The galaxy itself is adrift.

It's not that photography recaptures the world you have been in; more that it creates a new one: photographs are like Post-It Notes reminding us of the deep architectonic forms of space and thought.