Why do I doubt her? Perhaps she is just very sensitive, and hypersensitive people are false when others doubt them; they waver. And one thinks them insincere. Yet I want to believe her. At the same time it does not seem so very important that she should love me. It is not her role. I am so filled with my love of her. And at the same time I feel that I am dying. Our love would be death. The embrace of imaginings.

The self is merely the lens through which we see others and the world.

The poet is one who is able to keep the fresh vision of the child alive.

The period without the diary remains an ordeal. Every evening I want my diary as one wants opium.

To change skins, evolve into new cycles, I feel one has to learn to discard

Love men and women not for their strength but their softness, not for their fullness but their hunger, not for their plenty but their need.

Memory is a great betrayer.