- our bodies are ugly: they perturb our music and clench us in bad materials, they deform our vision and constrict us to trivial numbers, they abase our ideals and conceal us to narrow, organic lines. and they stick to us like a heavy, ironic conjunction, our only follower and foregoer, constantly there to shut our depths and connect us to a tedious, mechanical cycle.

- our words are like dirty walls: they come from thick throats, plagued by erosive membranes, then crawl on ribald tongues and decompose in rotting air.

- i love bad weather more than anything: it disjoins long-stretched smiles, kills counterfeit conversations and tarnishes clean-cut dresses. it shuts up our meaningless routine and mocks our ridiculous hedonism.to me, there's nothing like heavy rain: it doesn't care nor explain, simply unfolds savagely, shattering colors elegantly and screaming from fragile depths. and it stands by itself and lives through its abstruse undoing, impetuous, raw and uncovered, in all lines that draw beauty: intricacy and violence. and we can only watch.