There Is No End. There

Realism Is A Bad Word. In A Sense Everything Is Realistic. I See No Line Between The Imaginary And The Real.

Life Is A Combination Of Magic And Pasta.

Objects And Their Functions No Longer Had Any Significance. All I Perceived Was Perception Itself, The Hell Of Forms And Figures Devoid Of Human Emotion And Detached From The Reality Of My Unreal Environment. I Was An Instrument In A Virtual World That Constantly Renewed Its Own Meaningless Image In A Living World That Was Itself Perceived Outside Of Nature. And Since The Appearance Of Things Was No Longer Definitive But Limitless, This Paradisiacal Awareness Freed Me From The Reality External To Myself. The Fire And The Rose, As It Were, Became One.

Regrets Are A Waste Of Time. They're The Past Crippling You In The Present.

Going To The Cinema Is Like Returning To The Womb; You Sit There, Still And Meditative In The Darkness, Waiting For Life To Appear On The Screen.