I Write Emotional Algebra.

Perfection Is Static, And I Am In Full Progress.

My Life Is Slowed Up By Thought And The Need To Understand What I Am Living.

I Stopped Loving My Father A Long Time Ago. What Remained Was The Slavery To A Pattern.

To Write Is To Descend, To Excavate, To Go Underground.

Strange, Isn't It, That No Chemical Will Give A Human Being The Iridescence That Illusions Have Given Them? Give Me Your Hat.