Holding someone's hand was always my idea of joy.
My life, the most truthful one, is unrecognizable, extremely interior, and there is no single word that gives it meaning.
I hear the mad song of a little bird and crush butterflies between my fingers.
I' is merely one of the world's instantaneous spasms.
Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?
Ela acreditava em anjo e, porque acreditava, eles existiam" | "She believed in angels, and, because she believed, they existed