I Like Reality. It Tastes Like Bread.

In Matters Of Money There's No Such Thing As Enough.

Tragedy Is Clean, It Is Restful, It Is Flawless.

All Prisons Are Brimming Over With Innocence. It Is Those Who Cram Their Fellows Into Them, In The Name Of Empty Ideas, Who Are The Only Guilty Ones.

There Is Love Of Course. And Then There's Life, Its Enemy.

Love Is, Above All, The Gift Of Oneself.