By being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

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I shed more tears than God could ever have required.

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I is another.

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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.

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True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

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I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

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I'm intact, and I don't give a damn.

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I believe I am in Hell, therefore I am.

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In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those whom I met did not see me.

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Life is the farce we are all forced to endure.

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