And the rest is rust and stardust.

Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon

...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.

Art at its greatest is fantastically deceitful and complex.

Don't touch me; I'll die if you touch me.

And I want to rise up, throw my arms open for a vast embrace, address an ample, luminous discourse to the invisible crowds. I would start like this: "O rainbow-colored gods. . .

And yet I adore him. I think he's quite crazy, and with no place or occupation in life, and far from happy, and philosophically irresponsible – and there is absolutely nobody like him.