I write in order to comprehend, not to express myself.

I am that which lies beyond time. Like a melody, which sounds completely only after the last note is played.

Letters of the condemned. Last words scratched on a cell’s wall. To write like that.

We cling to words like drowning men to straws. But still we drown, we drown.

This morning I suddenly catch myself: I'm not there, I'm so lost in thought, I don't know what's going on around me. Can you think yourself to death?

Writing down your thoughts is both necessary and harmful. It leads to eccentricity, narcissism, preserves what should be let go. On the other hand, these notes intensify the inner life, which, left unexpressed, slips through your fingers. If only I could find a better kind of journal, humbler, one that would preserve the same thoughts, the same flesh of life, which is worth saving.

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.