“A vertical stroke: the male who penetrates her.”

The house satisfies a requirement.

It was the first work of art. A horizontal stroke: the woman lying down.

Man loves everything that satisfies his comfort.

All art is erotic.

The work of art is responsible to none; the house is responsible to everyone.

Lack of ornamentation is a sign of spiritual strength.

The room has to be comfortable; the house has to look habitable.

Be truthful. Nature only sides with truth.

The house thinks of the present.

Supply and demand regulate architectural form.

He hates everything that wants to draw him out of his acquired and secured position and that disturbs him.

The work of art wants to draw people out of their state of comfort.

The work is a private matter for the artist. The house is not.

I have emerged victorious from my thirty years of struggle.

he architect’s task therefore, is to make those sentiments more precise.

Tattooed men who are not behind bars are either latent criminals or degenerate aristocrats.

Her breaths are filled with magic, and the veins sparkling with his kisses.

My heartbeats have filled the directions and glory of love that I receive from him, a meaningful positive calm filled aura in being his.

I stood in the face of fear, with the smirk on my face, baiting it to have a go, so that I can embed my soul in the very aura that kept threatening my sanity.

I am a woman whose shadows echo life and light in the dark abyss of life.

Her breaths breathe that every encounter with him is a treasure and blessing uplifting her to royalty.

Her heart beats with rhythms of sanity mingled with darkness and fierce brutality, she is elixir of life’s poison.

She looked at her image in the mirror, and she kept schooling her soul, it is the right time to update and upgrade youurself.

She was his laughter, that filled the air passages with freedom of living, his creator of smiles.