If they substituted the word 'Lust' for 'Love' in the popular songs it would come nearer the truth.

I am accused. I dream of massacres. I am a garden of black and red agonies. I drink them, Hating myself, hating and fearing. And now the world conceives Its end and runs toward it, arms held out in love.

How frail the human heart must be - a mirrored pool of thought.

There is a certain unique and strange delight about walking down an empty street alone.

I dream too much, work too little.

Love is the bone and sinew of my curse.

I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily.