Regrets Are A Waste Of Time. They're

All Art Is Autobiographical.

You Exist Only In What You Do.

Objects And Their Functions No Longer Had Any Significance. All I Perceived Was Perception Itself, The Hell Of Forms And Figures Devoid Of Human Emotion And Detached From The Reality Of My Unreal Environment. I Was An Instrument In A Virtual World That Constantly Renewed Its Own Meaningless Image In A Living World That Was Itself Perceived Outside Of Nature. And Since The Appearance Of Things Was No Longer Definitive But Limitless, This Paradisiacal Awareness Freed Me From The Reality External To Myself. The Fire And The Rose, As It Were, Became One.

I Never Make Moral Judgments; I'm Not Qualified To Do So. I Am Not A Censor, A Priest, Or A Politician.

I Even See The Cinema Itself As A Woman, With Its Alternation Of Light And Darkness, Of Appearing And Disappearing Images