الحلم الأمومي بساطٌ دافئ ، عشٌ من القطن يلبد فيه صغار - Arthur Rimbaud

J'écrivais des silences, des nuits, je notais l'inexprimable. Je fixais des vertiges.

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

Love...no such thing.

Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love. That's stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn't exist.

Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.