“To be in love with one of those images was worse than being in love with a ghost (perhaps we always want the person we love to have the existenceof a ghost).”

But still I know that writing this diary can perhaps provide the answer; it may even help produce the right future.

Not only do we traverse a realm of shadows; but ourselves are shadows.

Like all unrequited love, takes its toll in the long run.

It is widely held in high regard.

To be on an island inhabited by artificial ghosts was the most unbearable of nightmares

Love is a privilege perception, the most total and lucid not only of the unreality of the world but of our own unreality

The sea is endless when you are in a rowboat.

Which one will it be? Time alone will tell.

Life has now taught me that love for things,

The body is imaginary, and we bow to the tyranny of a phantom.

I believe we lose immortality because we have not conquered our opposition to death;

And the reason I am so nervous is that everything I do now is leading me to one of three possible futures…

People love nobody as much as they do their hatred.

Makes almost everybody uncomfortable, and a few, extraordinarily rich.

Perhaps we always want the person we love, to have the existence of a ghost.

Revolution: Political movement which gets many people´s hopes up, let´s even more people down

To be on an island inhabited by artificial ghosts was the most unbearable of nightmares

O Death, rock me asleep, bring me to quiet rest, let pass my weary guiltless ghost out of my careful breast.

Perhaps we always want the person we love, to have the existence of a ghost.

In my experience, ghosts are made up only of the living, people you know are out there but are forever out of range

Romance like a ghost escapes touching; it is always where you are not, not where you are. The interview or conversation was prose at the time, but it is poetry in the memory.

Step out the front door like a ghost into the fog where noone notices the contrast of white on white.

All night I dreamt of bonfires and burn piles and ghosts of men, and spirits behind those birds of flame. I cannot tell anymore when a door opens or closes,

I can only hear the frame saying, Walk through.