I think perhaps all of us go a little crazy at times.

We are all a little weird and life's a little weird, and when we find someone whose weirdness is compatible with ours, we join up with them and fall in mutual weirdness and call it love.

People like you and me are quite lonely really but we still have each other, we have the secret satisfaction of being different, of rebelling, of desiring the unusual.

For we are all in some way or other kept asunder by our secrets; and instead of seeking through confession to bridge the abysses that separate us from one another, we choose the easy by-way of deceptive opinions and illusions.

We're all somewhat courageous, and we're all considerably cowardly. We're all imperfect, and life is simply a perpetual, unending struggle against those imperfections.

I think we're all a little bit crazy. But once we figure that out, we can start doing something about it.

In life we all have that tinge of what we actually are on the inside.

Sometimes it’s only madness that makes us what we are.

I think we're all a bunch of weirdos on a quest to belong. The songs are echolocation up in impregnable fog. That's why it's odd to see a pile of imperfections and flaws ascend a pedestal to patronize the rest of the cogs.

That's the secret of existence. We're all a little mad.

Do you know my friend that each one of us is a dark mystery, a maze of conflicting passions and desire and aptitudes?

Everyone, in some small secret sanctuary of the self, is nuts.

We all have private ails. The troublemakers are they who need public cures for their private ails. 44

135. On est quelquefois aussi différent de soi-même que des autres.