To think is an act. To feel is a fact.

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting

My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.

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.

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.

I write to save someone's life, probably my own

The mystery of human destiny is that we are fated, but that we have the freedom to fulfill or not fulfill our fate: realization of our fated destiny depends on us. While inhuman beings like the cockroach realize the entire cycle without going astray because they make no choices.