Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?

Do not mourn the dead. They know what they are doing.

Putting my hand in someone else’s has always been my definition of happiness. Before I fall asleep, often - in that small struggle not to lose consciousness and go into the greater world - often, before I get up the courage to go into the vastness of sleep, I pretend that someone has my hand in theirs, and then I go, go to that enormous absence of form that is sleep. And when even after that I don’t have courage, I dream.

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.

Do you know that hope sometimes consists only of a question without an answer?

But don't forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.

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