In my dream I found you to whisper my stories to. When I woke up I lost my voice forever. I had nothing left to say anymore.

Something was amiss in the beauty of the first rain… until you stepped out.

When all is done and the soul becomes an island or a desert, does every breath feel like a curse?

Today I taught Buku (my son) that the most precious thing in life is love, followed by time.

You are so beautiful in scarlet. How could I take my eyes off you?

Who knows what language she speaks, but every muffled word is music to my ears… as if I could spend the rest of my life trying to decipher them, trying to understand the secret behind her everlasting euphoria.

Solitude is man’s best companion. It makes him strive to inspect life, understand, introspect and clinch at the slightest possibility of creating something new. The lonely are never in self-denial, they are constantly aware of their predicament. And this nightmare of ending up the same way… in seclusion and be forgotten soon after drives him into the madness of creation. To be remembered something by, something unique and something that would transcend him and his time long after he is gone – his masterpiece. He might even consider it a parting gift to humanity, an ingredient that pours in the absolute purity of his heart and soul into anything he creates, and often that creation is the hidden talent he had.

If you ask me, a man needs no more space than a table in the inconspicuous corner of the house or an abandoned attic to exercise his full potential.

A dream can only become real when it’s uninterrupted.

Man comprehends the value of something only twice – when he understands it the first time and when he loses it. Possession and familiarity are the nemeses of sustained romanticism.

In case you’re wondering, you muted me.