My Plays Are Made Up Of Long

Work Restores Humankind And All Its Attributes To The Savage Animal Condition That Was Its Original Intended State.

Love Points The Way. Desire Is Its Ignorant Advisor.

Every Day, A Piece Of Music, A Short Story, Or A Poem Dies Because Its Existence Is No Longer Justified In Our Time. And Things That Were Once Considered Immortal Have Become Mortal Again, No One Knows Them Anymore. Even Though They Deserve To Survive.

Vice Is Basically The Love Of Failure.

I Have The Feeling It Will Influence My Future Writing To The Extent That Without Any Material Worries I Could Develop A Greater Ease, Even Lightheartedness, In My Writing