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

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.

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.

I ask myself: is every story that has ever been written in this world, a story of suffering and affliction?

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

I want the following word: splendor, splendor is fruit in all its succulence, fruit without sadness. I want vast distances. My savage intuition of myself.

I do not know much. But there are certain advantages in not knowing. Like virgin territory, the mind is free of preconceptions. Everything I do not know forms the greater part of me: This is my largesse. And with this I understand everything. The things I do not know constitute my truth.