I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.

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

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

I work only with lost and founds.

But I welcome the darkness where the two eyes of that soft panther glow. The darkness is my cultural broth. The enchanted darkness. I go on speaking to you, risking disconnection: I’m subterraneously unattainable because of what I know.

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.

In the world there exists no aesthetic plane, not even the aesthetic plane of goodness.