Murder Is Terribly Exhausting.

A Craving For Freedom And Independence Is Generated Only In A Man Still Living On Hope.

The Act Of Love . . . Is A Confession. Selfishness Screams Aloud, Vanity Shows Off, Or Else True Generosity Reveals Itself.

Conscious Of Not Being Able To Separate Myself From My Time, I Have Decided To Become Part Of It.

In The End, We Would Like Not To Be Guilty While At The Same Time Being Dispensed Of The Effort Of Purifying Ourselves. Not Enough Cynicism And Not Enough Virtue.

If It Adapts Itself To What The Majority Of Our Society Wants, Art Will Be A Meaningless Recreation.