Closed in a room, my imagination becomes the universe, and the rest of the world is missing out.

The best ideas will eat at you for days, maybe even weeks, until something, some incident, some impulse, triggers you to finally express them.

Astray from a deep sleep chronic as I write by phonics, like insomnia I will always live the onyx night for revealing, and, upon it, still I'll steal the bright light of day right away just to keep building at speeds hypersonic.

Thoughts are like burning stars, and ideas, they flood, they stretch the universe.

I like solitude. It is when you truly hear and speak your natural, unadulterated mind, and out comes your most stupid self as well as your most intelligent self. It is when you realize who you are and the extents of the good and the evils which you are capable of.

I treat my thoughts like an old person treats their valuables: I cannot for the life of me proceed to throwing them out.

The complete recipe for imagination is absolute boredom.

All things remarkable are surprisingly simple; albeit difficult to find.

Those 'back burner' thoughts, the ones the brain isn't quite sure about yet, may cook the slowest yet they often manage to be the tastiest when they come out.