God is a book I can no longer read.

Only God would adore his own death.

We live in the hope that life will be different. Just a little more substance perhaps in the intrinsic frailty of the days. Such resignation frightens me. Between gunshots I get drunk. In secret, all knowledge becomes anxiety.

A constant human error: to believe in an end to one's fantasies. Our daydreams are the measure of our unreachable truth. The secret of all things lies in the emptiness of the formula that guard them.

There is no way I can avoid thinking about the kind of world I belong to. The abuse of utopias disfigures everything.

The deeper I go into myself the more I realize that I am my own enemy.

I protect myself by refusing to know myself.

There comes a time when all that remains for us to do is to surrender to the idiosyncrasies of our nature.

To duplicate meanings is to isolate the consciousness.

Ideals make reason inaccessible.

Madness plants mirrors in the desert. I find the means frightening.

Something tells me that immortality is monstrous.