In the presence of their love I sensed my lonliness, and I understood for a moment, clearly, that deep and basic human desire for companionship at depth.

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

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

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

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.

What passes relentlessly through the years is blood, and time; all the bitterness or warmth along the way is almost incidental. Even blood gets forgotten eventually, bleached into myth which are bleached of all colour into ashes of myth.

If time stood still, and we could choose the time, the best time, then love without pain would be all I know.