Artists Are The Monks Of The Bourgeois

But All Years Are Stupid. It's Only When They're Over That They Become Interesting.

Those Philosophers Who Believe In The Absolute Logic Of Truth Have Never Had To Discuss It On Close Terms With A Woman.

We Do Not Remember Days, We Remember Moments.

Perfect Behaviour Is Born Of Complete Indifference.

The Face Of The Night Will Be An Old Wound That Reopens Each Evening, Impassive And Living. The Distant Silence Will Ache Like A Soul, Mute, In The Dark. We'll Speak To The Night As It's Whispering Softly.