He does not love me, he loves the idea of me.

If memories had a smell, it would be the fragrance of camphor, sweet and secure, like clearly remembered happiness, sweet and melancholy, like forgotten sorrow.

The eyes of others our prisons; their thoughts our cages.

"The best way to predict the future is to create it."

我不相信艺术中存在绝对真理的可能性。