Words are the clothes thoughts wear.

Life is habit. Or rather life is a succession of habits.

Reality, whether approached imaginatively or empirically, remains a surface, hermetic.

Art has always been this--pure interrogation, rhetorical question less the rhetoric--whatever else it may have been obliged by social reality to appear.

Art has nothing to do with clarity, does not dabble in the clear and does not make clear

Nothing is more real than nothing.

My keepers, why keepers, I'm in no danger of stirring an inch, ah I see, it's to make me think I'm a prisoner, frantic with corporeality, rearing to get out and away.