Reality is as thin as paper and betrays with all its cracks its imitative character.
Under the imaginary table that separates me from my readers, don’t we secretly clasp each other’s hands?
Lifelessness is only a disguise behind which hide unknown forms of life.
So, it comes to pass that, when we pursue an inquiry beyond a certain depth, we step out of the field of psychological categories and enter the sphere of the ultimate mysteries of life. The floorboards of the soul, to which we try to penetrate, fan open and reveal the starry firmament.
My ideal goal is to "mature" into childhood. That would be genuine maturity.
Could it be that time is too narrow for all events? Could it happen that all the seats within time might have been sold? Worried, we run along the train of events, preparing ourselves for the journey.