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

The only truth is that I live. Sincerely, I live. Who am I? Well, that's a bit much.

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

I only achieve simplicity with enormous effort

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.

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?