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

For one has the right to shout. So, I am shouting.

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

For at the hour of death you became a celebrated film star, it is a moment of glory for everyone, when the choral music scales the top notes.

Love is now, is always. All that is missing is the coup de grâce- which is called passion.

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