The Dreams Are The Skeleton Of All

Certain Things I Remember Exactly As They Were. They Are Merely Discolored A Bit By Time, Like Coins In The Pocket Of A Forgotten Suit. Most Of The Details, Though, Have Long Since Been Transformed Or Rearranged To Bring Others Of Them Forward. Some, In Fact, Are Obviously Counterfeit; They Are No Less Important. One Alters The Past To Form The Future.

I'd Say The Biggest Relationship Is The Repetition Of Certain Themes. I Don't Want To Say "topics," But Certain Points Of Interest.

There Is No Complete Life. There Are Only Fragments. We Are Born To Have Nothing, To Have It Pour Through Our Hands. And Yet, This Pouring, This Flood Of Encounters, Struggles, Dreams...

You Can Write About Other People And Their Ideas And Life Without Having Lived It, But Even Your Perception Of That Is Going To Be Colored By What You Know And What You Experience. And This Is Undeniable.

I Don't Fear Death. I'm Not Obsessed With It The Way Everybody Else Seems To Be.