The World Exists To End Up In

All Thoughts Emit A Throw Of Dice

Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With Ideas.

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.

A Soul Trembling To Sit By A Hearth So Bright, To Exist Again, It’s Enough If I Borrow From Your Lips The Breath Of My Name You Murmur All Night.