Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.

And even sadness was also something for rich people, for people who could afford it, for people who didn't have anything better to do. Sadness was a luxury.

What I want is to live of that initial and primordial something that was what made some things reach the point of aspiring to be human.

The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.

I write as if to save somebody’s life. Probably my own. Life is a kind of madness that death makes. Long live the dead because we live in them.

For only when I err do I get away from what I know and what I understand. If "truth" were what I can understand, it would end up being but a small truth, my-sized. Truth must reside precisely in what I shall never understand.

I just know that I don't want cheating. I refuse. I deepened myself but I don't believe in myself because my thought is invented.