One Can't Carry One's Father's Corpse About

People Quickly Grow Accustomed To Being The Slaves Of Mystery.

I Don't Want To Work. I Want To Smoke.

I Love Men, Not For What Unites Them, But For What Divides Them, And I Want To Know Most Of All What Gnaws At Their Hearts.

In This Mirror, I Am Enclosed A Live And Real As You. Imagine Angels And Not Like The Reflections.

Artists Are, Above All, Men Who Want To Become Inhuman.