Only In Chaos Are We Conceivable.

When I Was Done Traveling, I Returned Convinced Of One Thing: We're Nothing.

In The Current Socio-political Climate, He Said To Himself, Committing Suicide Is Absurd And Redundant. Better To Become An Undercover Poet.

Probably All Of Us, Writers And Readers Alike, Set Out Into Exile, Or At Least Into A Certain Kind Of Exile, When We Leave Childhood Behind...the Immigrant, The Nomad, The Traveler, The Sleepwalker All Exist, But Not The Exile, Since Every Writer Becomes An Exile Simply By Venturing Into Literature, And Every Reader Becomes An Exile Simply By Opening A Book.

But Every Single Damn Thing Matters! Only We Don't Realize. We Just Tell Ourselves That Art Runs On One Track And Life, Our Lives, On Another, And We Don't Realize That's A Lie.

Metaphors Are Our Way Of Losing Ourselves In Semblances Or Treading Water In A Sea Of Seeming.