Vivre Est Une Chute Horizontale. Life Is

I Only Fear The Death Of Others. For Me, True Death Is That Of The People I Love

Art Is A Marriage Of The Conscious And The Unconscious.

May The Devil Himself Splatter You With Dung.

The Runner Stopped Dead, Lost His Balance, Froze In One Of Those Violent Attitudes In Which The Photographers Petrify Living Reality.

Continue Reading Proust. His Magnificent Intelligence Is Particularly Fond Of Describing Stupidity. Which Is Ultimately Exhausting.