“I’m wrong but I’m real.”

If there’s never been a restraining order, it ain’t love.

It wasn’t forever. But I loved her until I hated her.

She was only a collection of flaws and she was beautiful.

There’s a strange beauty in her. She shines like hell.

He opened her cages, and freed the things inside.

Break me. Until there’s nothing left and I’ll be free.

She’s no rose. But in her I see the beauty of thorns.

There’s this thing that hurts inside me all the time. Because I know what’s coming.

Lets die. Alone. Like we always do.

Failures often become art. And art can never fail.

Summer looks the same. But last summer she loved me.

Poems are a nice way of saying fuck you.

Always falling but not for anything.

We search for meaning. And destroy it.

She was simple. Like a poem, and always dressed in sunshine.

She was an artist on top of me, and soaked my sheets with poetry.

Without man and his potential for moral progress, the whole of reality would be a mere wilderness, a thing in vain, and have no final purpose.

Lifestyle is a consequence of the times we live in – life is the real thing.

We do not have any clear, common and simple relation to reality and to ourselves. That is the big problem of the Western world.

Most people, when they are set upon looking into other people’s affairs, never turn to examine themselves.

Space and time are the framework within which the mind is constrained to construct its experience of reality.

I sometimes struggle, because my job is like the antithesis of what surfing is all about. Surfing’s simple. It’s real.

If your real desire is to be good, there is no need to wait for the money before you do it; you can do it now, this very moment, and just where you are.

If your illusions are shattered, it means you are getting closer to reality.