I wondered what on earth she saw in me that could make her want to befriend me, other than a pale reflection of herself, an echo of solitude and loss. In my ..reveries, we were always two fugitives riding on the spine of a book, eager to escape into worlds of fiction and second hand dreams

It’s a story of love, of hatred, and of the dreams that live in the shadow of the wind.

Sometimes feeling and thinking are one and the same.

Every labyrinth has its minotaur

Poetry is written with tears, fiction with blood, and history with invisible ink.

A good liar knows that the most efficient lie is always a truth that has had a key piece removed from it.

Martin, at my age, eroticism is reduced to enjoying caramel custard and looking at widows' necks.' - Senor Sempere.