Her beauty was a longing that sparked verses.
Her eyes concealed a sorrow bound to someone's love.

All your rage is to conceal a fragile heart.

Today once again on the thread of my sorrows, I have strung the flowers of your memory.

Nobody loves the warrior until the enemy is at the gates.

Those lacking imagination take refuge in reality.

It was September. in the last days when things are getting sad for no reason.

She is delightfully chaotic; a beautiful mess. Loving her is a splendid adventure.

Those who forget the past are condemned to repeat it.

And something else happens and everything else is gone.

Sometimes everything cries in you, except your eyes.

The only way to deal with an unfree world is to become so absolutely free that your very existence is an act of rebellion.

They complained about the smoke, those who set our hearts on fire.

Loneliness that age like red wine... .

The self is only a threshold, a door, a becoming between two multiplicities.

The right person will stay to figure it out with you.

I don't feel particularly proud of myself. But when I walk alone in the woods or lie in the meadows, all is well.

The magic you are looking for is in the work you're avoiding.

In my darkness, I search for light.
In the light, shadows call me back.

In a world of inhumane reality, dreams are the only humane sanctuary left.

Mystery is the essential element of every work of art.

It's the magic of risking everything for a dream that no one sees but you.