Life Is What We Make Of It.

I Enjoy Wording. Words For Me Are Tangible Bodies, Visible Sirens, Incarnate Sensualities.

The End Is Low, Like All Quantitative Ends, Personal Or Not, And It Can Be Attained And Verified.

I’m Beginning To Know Myself. I Don’t Exist. I’m The Space Between What I’d Like To Be And What Others Made Of Me. Just Let Me Be At Ease And All By Myself In My Room.

It Is Noble To Be Shy, Illustrious Not To Know How To Act, Great Not To Have A Gift For Living.

And As Well As I Dream, I Reason If I Want, For That's Just Another Kind Of Dream.