I Can Write Pretty Much Anywhere.

The Human World Is Made Of Stories, Not People.

The Uncreated And The Dead Exist Solely In Our Actual And Virtual Pasts.

My Life Amounts To No More Than One Drop In A Limitless Ocean. Yet What Is Any Ocean, But A Multitude Of Drops?

One's Ribs Shouldn't Be Prison Bars.

How Vulgar, This Hankering After Immortality, How Vain, How False. Composers Are Merely Scribblers Of Cave Paintings. One Writes Music Because Winter Is Eternal And Because, If One Didn't, The Wolves And Blizzards Would Be At One's Throat All The Sooner.