Seaside idyll

Warhol and can

Those insomniac nights. You know you should get up out of bed and do something but you feel like you're pinned to the bed, and you just want to keep following the cascade of strange thoughts that rolls through the brain, again and again.

When you love you open yourself to the possibility of extreme pain. There are only two ways it can end, either one person will leave or one will die first. So all love affairs are just tragedies waiting to happen.

A fresh, raw, gaping open wound, oozing blood, will eventually turn into a beautiful scar if you let it.

Why does inspiration have to flee from you when you need it most?

What is the difference between empire and illusion?