Antonin Artaud Nothing resembles love so much as the appeal of certain dream landscapes, the encirclement of certain hills by a clay-like material whose forms seem moulded onto our thoughts. But one must walk slowly along the road of dead stones, especially someone who has lost his understanding of words .
Inspiration is nothing but a foetus and the word is also nothing but a foetus.
I know when I wanted to write, words failed me, that's all. What you took to be my works were only my waste matter, those soul scrapings a normal man does not welcome. When I am trying to discover myself, my thoughts seek one another in the regions of new space. I am up in the moon, dreaming, while others sit at home. I partake in planetary gravitation within the fissures of my mind.