Literature + Illness = Illness

If I Were To Say What I Really Think I Would Be Arrested Or Shut Away In A Lunatic Asylum. Come On, I Am Sure That It Would Be The Same For Everyone.

For A Moment The Two Of Them Looked At Each Other, Wordless, As If They Were Asleep And Their Dreams Had Converged On Common Ground, A Place Where Sound Was Alien.

Poetry And Prison Have Always Been Neighbors.

Nothing Good Ever Comes Of Love. What Comes Of Love Is Always Something Better

One Should Read Borges More.