I am still there, at that distant place in time, I never left it, but live expanded in the past, or out of it.

What did i know of your fantasies? Why do we know so little about the fantasies of our parents? What do we know of somebody if we know nothing of the images passed to him by his imagination?

[Vanity] is an unrecognised form of stupidity, you have to forget the cosmic meaninglessness of all our acts to be able to be vain and that's a glaring form of stupidity.

Isn't it true that it's not people who meet, but rather the shadows cast by their imaginations?

Human beings can't bear silence.It would mean that they would bear themselves.

But when we set out to understand somebody’s inside? Is that a trip that ever ends? Is the soul a place of facts? Or are the alleged facts only the deceptive shadows of our stories?

I am still there, at that distant place in time, I never left it, but live expanded in the past, or out of it.