We're extremely fortunate not to know precisely the kind of world we live in. One would have to live a long, long time, unquestionably longer than the world itself.

Generally speaking, life is so rich and full of variety; you have to remember all the time that there is a comical side to everything.

Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.

Whatever inspiration is, it's born from a continuous "I don't know.

Any knowledge that doesn't lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.

I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

There's simply too much fuss about myself.