Wise Is He Who Enjoys

My Past Is Everything I Failed To Be.

Ser Compreendido é Prostituir-se.

To Narrate Is To Create, For Living Is Just Being Lived.

My Soul's The Present Shadow Of A Presence Gone.

When All By Myself, I Can Think Of All Kinds Of Clever Remarks, Quick Comebacks To What No One Said, And Flashes Of Witty Sociability With Nobody. But All Of This Vanishes When I Face Someone In The Flesh: I Lose My Intelligence, I Can No Longer Speak, And After Half An Hour I Just Feel Tired. Talking To People Makes Me Feel Like Sleeping. Only My Ghostly And Imaginary Friends, Only The Conversations I Have In My Dreams, Are Genuinely Real And Substantial.