We die in proportion of the untold secrets we throw around us. The fuller that black box is, the less salvation we get. Put the case that our black box never really gets completely empty.

I admit nothing. I cannot express the essence of what cannot be possessed. Poetry doesn’t stop decay, it exacerbates it.

We label things and people out of desperation and self-doubt. We have to have a formula to explain our thoughts and feelings. We live bereaved lives.

We naively feel worthy of some little confidence from others in return of the little confidence we give them. We should rather swallow that confidence with vice and blood, because there is no logic in that non-existent exchange. Act at your own risk.

When you speak, you give away your secrets. Everybody speaks. We speak more now than ever before. Not only that, we want to speak louder than everyone else. We want to be the chatterbox queen and king. When you speak, you stop being an artist.

Let’s conjugate Fate: I was, I am, I will… How contemptuous. Enduring existence is such a wearing occupation, such an impractical career. Everybody should know their own business.