I could easily blast so much keef night and day I become a bouhali a real-gone crazy, a holy untouchable madman unto whom everything is permitted, nothing is true.

When ya gotta goNow we know what we are here for. We are not here to love fear and serve any old bearded but invisible thunder god. We are here to go.

Writing is fifty years behind painting.

The poets are supposed to liberate the words – not chain them in phrases. Who told the poets they were supposed to think? Poets are meant to sing and to make words sing. Writers don't own their words. Since when do words belong to anybody? 'Your very own words,' indeed! And who are you?

As no two people see the world the same way, all trips from here to there are imaginary all truth is a tale I am telling myself.