Literature + Illness = Illness

We Never Stop Reading, Although Every Book Comes To An End, Just As We Never Stop Living, Although Death Is Certain.

When You Die Of Sorrow It's As If You've Broken All The Bones In Your Body, Bruised Yourself All Over, Cracked Your Skull. That's Sorrow.

In Some Lost Fold Of The Past, We Wanted To Be Lions And We're No More Than Castrated Cats

If I Were To Say What I Really Think I Would Be Arrested Or Shut Away In A Lunatic Asylum. Come On, I Am Sure That It Would Be The Same For Everyone.

The Moon Is Fat And The Night Air Is So Pure It Seems Edible.