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.

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

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.

I’m moved by everything broken and crippled. Since that’s how we really are.

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

There are things better left untouched by words.

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