“Where’s your will to be weird?”

A hero is someone who rebels or seems to rebel against the facts of existence and seems to conquer them.

How can they expect me or anyone else to set them free if they don’t really want to be free?

They force us to destroy the person we really are: a subtle kind of murder.

People are afraid of themselves, of their own reality; their feelings most of all. People talk about how great love is, but that’s bullshit

Maybe primitive people have less bullshit to let go of, to give up.

Being drunk is a good disguise. I drink so I can talk to assholes. This includes me.

That’s what real love amounts to – letting a person be what he really is.

I think that phrase is the most horrible phrase in the English language – ‘I don’t know.’ It’s terribly embarrassing.

Twentieth-century culture’s disease is the inability to feel their reality.

They grow attached to their masks. They love their chains. They forget all about who they really are.

Give form to the passing World. Freeways are a drama.

A person has to be willing to give up everything—not just wealth. All the bullshit he’s been taught—all society’s brainwashing.

All the poems have wolves in them. All but one. The most beautiful one of all. She dances in a ring of fire and throws off the challenge with a shrug.

I’m kind of hooked to the game of art and literature; my heroes are artists and writers.

How can I set free anyone who doesn’t have the guts to stand up alone and declare his own freedom?

We felt comfortable in our skins, enjoyed the news that our senses released to us, admired our dirt, cultivated our scars, and could not comprehend this unworthiness.