Walks. The Body Advances, While The Mind

Let Us Stay At Home: There We Are Decent. Let Us Not Go Out: Our Defects Wait For Us At The Door, Like Flies.

It Astounds Us To Come Upon Other Egoists, As Though We Alone Had The Right To Be Selfish, And To Be Filled With Eagerness To Live.

There Are No Friends; Only Moments Of Friendship.

The Story I Am Writing Exists, Written In Absolutely Perfect Fashion, Some Place, In The Air. All I Must Do Is Find It, And Copy It.

The Void Yields Up Nothing. You Have To Be A Great Poet To Make It Ring.