“Better to sleep in an uncomfortable bed free, than sleep in a comfortable bed unfree.”

Contrary to the general belief about photography, you don’t need bright sunlight: the best moodiest pictures are taken in the dim light of almost dusk, or of rainy days.

It’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

Everything is ecstasy inside. We just don’t know it because of our thinking-minds. But in our true blissful essence of mind it is known that everything is alright forever and forever and forever.

So therefore I dedicate myself, to my art, my sleep, my dreams, my labors, my suffrances, my loneliness, my unique madness, my endless absorption and hunger because I cannot dedicate myself to any fellow being.

For life is holy and every moment is precious.

Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.

Don’t use the phone. People are never ready to answer it. Use poetry.

Everything I wrote was true because I believed what I saw.

Something great is about to happen to me: I’m about to love somebody very much.

One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.

Who knows, my God, but that the universe is not one vast sea of compassion actually, the veritable holy honey, beneath all this show of personality and cruelty?

You are the equal of the idol who has given you your inspiration.

My fault, my failure, is not in the passions I have, but in my lack of control of them.

When you start separating people from their rivers, what have you got? Bureaucracy!

I was suddenly left with nothing in my hands but a handful of crazy stars.

I had nothing to offer anybody except my own confusion.

When I get into bed at night, I hope I don’t get into it alone!

Everyday is a new fresh start. To go straight back to bed.

We laid in bed with our hands tied, talked about love and clear, summer skies.

There is nothing wrong with going to bed with someone of your own sex. People should be very free with sex, they should draw the line at goats.

You can find shame in every house, burning in an ashtray, hanging framed upon a wall, covering a bed. But nobody notices it any more.

Teach me to live, that I may dread The grave as little as my bed. Teach me to die.

And so she remained a mystery, something to dream about on rainy days staring at the dark holly clouds passing by. – in a bed of flowers.

And here I am, dying in my bed, like cattle die. May the eyes of cowards never sleep.