I decided to tell the truth even if it meant being pointed at.

Only in chaos are we conceivable.

Poetry is the one thing that isn't contaminated, the one thing that isn't part of the game.

Dreams fade with morning light, Never a morn for thee, Dreamer of dreams, goodnight.

Then he went out without touching anything and put his arm around Ingeborg, and like that, with their arms around each other, they returned to the village while the whole past of the universe fell on their heads.

Nothing happened today. And if anything did, I’d rather not talk about it, because I didn’t understand it.

What twisted people we are. How simple we seem, or at least pretend to be in front of others, and how twisted we are deep down. How paltry we are and how spectacularly we contort ourselves before our own eyes, and the eyes of others...And all for what? To hide what? To make people believe what?