“My body is my journal, and my tattoos are my story.”

“Migration is the story of my body”

“if i can only recount the story of my life right out of my body flames will grow”

“In the letters he sends to his friend, Werther recounts both the events of his life and the effects of his passion; but it is literature which governs the mixture. For if I keep a journal, we may doubt that this journal relates, strictly speaking, to events. The events of amorous life are so trivial that they gain access to writing only by an immense effort: one grows discouraged writing what, by being written, exposes its own platitude: "I ran into X, who was with Y" "Today X didn't call me" "X was in a bad mood," etc.: who would see a story in that? The infinitesimal event exists only in its huge reverberation: Journal of my reverberations (of my wounds, my joys, my interpretations, my rationalizations, my impulses): who would understand anything in that? Only the Other could write my love story, my novel.”

“There are dark black buttons tattooed on my heart. I’ll carry them for the rest of my days.”

“Jaxon, of course, my pierced, tattooed, knight in shining armour.”