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

Everything comes to nothing in the end, I suppose. Or at least, nothing happens exactly the way we imagine it.

Drought brings out the worst in us and it's easy to hate your fellow human beings.

Love could be fractured and serve different purposes, and that intense love could be divided, between people just as easily as between moments of time.

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.

When you can stop you don't want to, and when you want to stop, you can't.

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.