I am empty of everything. I am empty of everything but the thin, frail ghosts in my room.

Now I no longer wish to be loved, beautiful, happy or successful. I want one thing and one thing only - to be left alone.

No past to make us sentimental, no future to embarrass us...a difficult moment when you are out of practice - a moment that makes you go cold, cold and wary.

And then the days came when I was alone.

I want more of this feeling - fire and wings.

Even the one moment that you thought was your eternity fades out and is forgotten and dies.

I've had enough of these streets that sweat a cold, yellow slime, of hostile people, of crying myself to sleep every night. I've had enough of thinking, enough of remembering.

Quite alone. No voice, no touch, no hand....How long must I lie here? For ever? No, only for a couple of hundred years this time, miss....

May you tear each other to bits, you damned hyenas, and the quicker the better. Let it be destroyed. Let it happen. Let it end, this cold insanity.

I want to be born and reborn as a cherry tree so that I may beautify this world with my blossoms, feed everyone with my nectar of love fruits, and purify the air with my calmly dancing leaves.

Your attitude is more important than stylish clothes. This comes from believing in yourself. This attitude can define your life.

What women say to lovers, you'll agree, One writes on running water or on air.

No battle was ever won according to plan, but no battle was ever won without one.

I do a lot of research, I try to think about how it relates to music and I just do a ton of drawing. It's much easier to work your ideas out that way.

By a curious confusion, many modern critics have passed from the proposition that a masterpiece may be unpopular to the other proposition that unless it is unpopular it cannot be a masterpiece.

The idea of The Boy Vs. The Cynic is the tension between the wide-eyed optimism in youthfulness where you think nothing can go wrong, "I've got the world ahead of me. I'm gonna be a go-getter.

Books do not simply happen to people. People also happen to books.

You don’t think ahead in years or months: you think about this hour, and maybe the next. Anything else is speculation.

I'll love you till the ocean Is folded and hung up to dry And the seven stars go squawking Like geese about the sky.