Book: Diary. Page 4

To forget the pain so hard - but even harder to remember the good times.
Happiness leaves no scars. Peaceful times don't teach us anything.

It was a time - pitch-black night, - when the ears hear the slightest rustle. When it is possible to see more closed, not open eyes.

Just a note: even when you sit, naked and smeared with shit in the wild, abrishamchi pink vomit, is not necessarily make you a great artist.

Now smile - if you still can.

The artist's task - to build order out of chaos. Assemble the parts, looking for a common line, can be arranged. Give meaning to meaningless facts. Lay out the puzzle pieces of the world. Mix and reorganize. Combine. Mount. Screwed.

All self - portraits. All diary.

Plato was right. We are all immortal. We can't die, even if you want.

We see what we want. We see only ourselves.

We will all die. The goal is not to live forever, the goal is to create something that will live.

There is nothing special. No magic. Only physics.

"Mona Lisa" by Leonardo - just a thousand thousand smears of paint. "David" by Michelangelo - a million blows of the hammer. Each of us is a million pieces correctly assembled into the whole, nothing more.

Everything in itself is nothing.

What you do not understand, you can understand anything.

Everyone has their own personal coma.