Art is a marriage of the conscious and the unconscious.
“Everything one does in life, even love, occurs in an express train racing toward death. To smoke opium is to get out of the train while it is still moving. It is to concern oneself with something other than life or death.”
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After the writer's death, reading his journal is like receiving a long letter.
I am a lie who always speaks the truth.
Since the day of my birth, my death began its walk. It is walking toward me, without hurrying.