That image you have locked in the sky, that’s not me. I’m somewhere else, breathing.

There is a dignity in creation.

We live in a time where façade appropriates the interior.  

Is it God? Or someone pretending to be God.

All this time, proving I’m not your enemy, while not understanding – you were my enemy.

To understand, don’t analyse. Look at its impact.

Through all the prose of life, to look at it still with a poet’s eye, that is the goal.

Keep him, he’s a bargain.

All dreams are potential nightmares.

Memory is a gift of eternity, and no villain should have a shrine.

Molten lava, and other thermal underwear.

Nourish what you have deprived.

To live a good life despite knowing trauma is the greatest gift to oneself.

The moment you think how it will appear to the other, it has lost half its power.

He does not question, he knows.

Follow the path that leads you to the wound that made you stop creating, and start pretending. If you heal it, you’ve regained your soul.

Walking sideways, crab-like, in freeze-frame, there goes the hoax, the flirt. But I painted on the likeness I chose and worshiped the dirt.

A wild spirit is crucial when it comes to creative survival. Remaining untamed is the ultimate protection.

The clearing. The transmutation. The offering.

Dangerous, but dull.

Memory is an illusion just as much as illusions are memory.

The Earth speaks to the stars. And they listen.

A garden of golden delights, she blooms with care.

The fiercest protection arises from acceptance of our vulnerability.

There is a sweetness in the twilight that is best left untouched.

Sadness ends where survival begins.

Stories are spells. Some are weaved to save you, some to destroy you.

If you don’t know what to believe, start with believing nothing. Except your beating heart.

Your softness saved me.

A new love that tastes like the sky.

Conformism is not the same as sacrifice. We sacrifice for love, and conform to belong.

Living like broken glass.

The silvering silence of the eclipsed saturnine Moon.

If there are rules, it’s still a game.

Each morning gives birth to a new universe.

There is a bulwark that stands in the way of all who want to change. It has the name of all those who don’t.

Let your killers put flowers on your grave, and think this now makes them good people. No one brings back the dead.

Things we are not meant to choose; our talents, whom we love, and how long we live.

Sinking, as immune response to a malefic lover.

We are the storm.

Low tides in swelling hearts.