Do those clowns really believe what they teach?

We live not only in a world of thoughts, but also in a world of things. Words without experience are meaningless.

Time is rhythm: the insect rhythm of a warm humid night, brain ripple, breathing, the drum in my temple—these are our faithful timekeepers; and reason corrects the feverish beat.

Readers are not sheep, and not every pen tempts them.

Although I could never get used to the constant state of anxiety in which the guilty, the great, and the tenderhearted live, I felt I was doing my best in the way of mimicry.

Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.

I think it is all a matter of love.