The future is called 'perhaps,' which is the only possible thing to call the future. And the important thing is not to allow that to scare you.

Openings come quickly, sometimes, like blue space in running clouds. A complete overcast, then a blaze of light.

We are all sentenced to solitary confinement inside our own skins, for life.

Life is all memory, except for the one present moment that goes by you so quickly you hardly catch it going.

Bohemia has no banner. It survives by discretion.

They chatter together like birds on Cypress Hill, but all they say is 'Live, live, live, live, live!' It's all they've learned, it's the only advice they can give.

All creative work, all life in a sense, is a cri de coeur.