Perhaps I am doomed to retrace my steps under the illusion that I am exploring, doomed to try and learn what I should simply recognize, learning a mere fraction of what I have forgotten.
The clouds were disappearing rapidly, leaving the stars to die. The night dried up.
The art of Frida Kahlo is a ribbon around a bomb.
There is nothing with which it is so dangerous to take liberties as liberty itself.
We all love conflagrations. When the sky changes color, it is a dead man's passing.
Words have finished flirting. Now they are making love.