Love is getting a special letter from David Bowie, even if he is mysterious.

I breath in the stars every night through my nostrils where I convert it into hope particles.

Always have sex in Paris, it's an iron clad rule.

My abs are so bronze that they will turn to bronze and be imortalized, end of the old Gods, in with the ABS.

It should be abundantly clear that if Russia is not pushed out of Ukraine within a short time a middle finger will go right into Europe.

My Mom says the Queen was keeping it together, now its not possible.

If the tecknology goes bad, there is always Prince, the amazing.

They just love their reflection reflected in others upon an emptry grave, in woes for eternity as to still walk and talk, was that not being a God, the person you were, the one you lost.

There can only be one.

Live it or ditch it.

I say my hands are soft, like rubberbands you tug at the heart of the science of art, and grab away to the sound of silence, where you hide a savage face, angry for nothing, the drop of blood found at the beach, the diamond clock, the fancy treat.