An unhealthy soul requires a healthy body.
Everything passes. Nobody gets anything for keeps. And that’s how we’ve got to live.
Listen up – there’s no war that will end all wars.
Most everything you think you know about me is nothing more than memories.
A deserted library in the morning – there’s something about it that really gets to me. All possible words and ideas are there, resting peacefully.
Become like a sheet of blotting paper and soak it all in. Later on you can figure out what to keep and what to unload.
I think of rivers, of tides. Forests and water gushing out. Rain and lightning. Rocks and shadows. All of these are in me.
Gazing at the rain, I consider what it means to belong, to become part of something. To have someone cry for me.
There is nothing so cruel in this world as the desolation of having nothing to hope for.
What you see with your eyes is not necessarily real.
I keep to this routine every day without variation. The repetition itself becomes the important thing; it’s a form of mesmerism. I mesmerize myself to reach a deeper state of mind.
I’m not so weird to me.
The sky grew darker, painted blue on blue, one stroke at a time, into deeper and deeper shades of night.
The fresh smell of coffee soon wafted through the apartment, the smell that separates night from day.
I want you always to remember me. Will you remember that I existed, and that I stood next to you here like this?
The world is an inherently unfair place.
There’s a special feeling you get on a veranda that you just can’t get anywhere else.
This is what it means to live on. When granted hope, a person uses it as fuel, as a guidepost to life. It is impossible to live without hope.
Which is why I am writing this book. To think. To understand. It just happens to be the way I’m made. I have to write things down to feel I fully comprehend them.
Will you wait for me forever?