All Unlived Emotions Turn To Inanity.

When I Don't Write, I Feel My World Shrinking. I Feel I Am In A Prison. I Feel I Lose My Fire And My Color. It Should Be A Necessity, As The Sea Needs To Heave, And I Call It Breathing.

Warmth, Perfume, Rugs, Soft Lights, Books. They Do Not Appease Me. I Am Aware Of Time Passing, Of All The World Contains That I Have Not Seen, Of All The Interesting People I Have Not Met.

Living Never Wore One Out So Much As The Effort Not To Live.

What Is Love But Acceptance Of The Other, Whatever He Is.

Poverty Is The Great Reality. That Is Why The Artist Seeks It.