Let Pascal say that man is a thinking reed. He is wrong; man is a thinking erratum. Each period in life is a new edition that corrects the preceding one and that in turn will be corrected by the next, until publication of the definitive edition, which the publisher donates to the worms.

To him the stars seemed like so many musical notes affixed to the sky, just waiting for somebody to unfasten them. Someday the sky would be emptied, but by then the earth would be a constellation of musical scores

Dreams disdain fine lines and finishing touches on landscapes – they content themselves with thick but representative brushstrokes.

There is nothing in the world so monstrously vast as our indifference.

Tomorrow's sun is on it's way - a relentless sun, inscrutable like life.

Tears are not arguments.

We kill time; time buries us.