There It Is, The Sea, The Most

Holding Someone's Hand Was Always My Idea Of Joy.

At First She Dreamed Of Sheep, Of Going To School, Of Cats Drinking Milk. Little By Little She Dreamed Of Blue Sheep, Of Going To School In The Middle Of The Woods, Of Cats Drinking Milk From Golden Saucers. And Her Dreams Became Increasingly Dense And Acquired Colours That Were Difficult To Dilute Into Words.

I Write As If To Save Somebody’s Life. Probably My Own. Life Is A Kind Of Madness That Death Makes. Long Live The Dead Because We Live In Them.

I Write And That Way Rid Myself Of Me And Then At Last I Can Rest.

In The World There Exists No Aesthetic Plane, Not Even The Aesthetic Plane Of Goodness.