We are like snails, each stuck to his own leaf.

If a man who can’t count finds a four leaf clover, is he lucky?

I see a poem as a multi-coloured strip behind peeling plaster, in separate, shining fragments.

Practically all SF is trash.

There are no answers, only choices.

I felt myself being invaded through and through, I crumbled, disintegrated, and only emptiness remained.

We are like snails, each stuck to his own leaf.