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

There is a time for reciting poems and a time for fists.

As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.

Poetry and prison have always been neighbors.

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?

The moon is fat and the night air is so pure it seems edible.

The sky, at sunset, looked like a carnivorous flower.