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.

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

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, who called love my hope for love.

Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam" | "She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed

I write and that way rid myself of me and then at last I can rest.

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