The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.

I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.

The world's continual breathing is what we hear and call silence.

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.

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

And I want to be held down. I don't know what to do with the horrifying freedom that can destroy me.

Things were somehow so good that they were in danger of becoming very bad because what is fully mature is very close to rotting