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

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.

Poetry is a presentiment of the truth.

Where your pain is, there your heart lies also.

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.

The way a source strains toward the light, toward the air. Its laboring work, its effort, its black passageways like despair. That’s the way a poet looks for words. With muscles, gestures.