I washed the precipitation and the expedition from my face. I washed the monotony, I washed the justification, the harmony, the contradiction, the absurdity, the disambiguation, and the fatality. My clarity of vision now seems mockingly poor.

Every explosive emotion around us that emerges and submerges has a mark of grimy flimsiness, a core of pointlessness. Sometimes is best to force yourself to silence.

Our skin-deep feelings are a nightmare for other people. We invoke our appearances as insolent triumphs, but it’s always for the others that we invent them every time.

How much tingling blood is there in the skeleton of an artist who’s warming in the sun while daydreaming? I guess that depends on what you compare it to.