For a moment the two of them looked at each other, wordless, as if they were asleep and their dreams had converged on common ground, a place where sound was alien.

The world is alive and no living thing has any remedy. That is our fortune.

But every single damn thing matters! Only we don't realize. We just tell ourselves that art runs on one track and life, our lives, on another, and we don't realize that's a lie.

Literature is the product of a strange rain of blood, sweat, semen, and tears.

No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

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

Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming.