Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.

A weak human mercy walks in the corridors of hospitals and is like a half-thawed winter.

And now I am ready to keep running When the sun rises beyond the borderlands of death. I already see mountain ridges in the heavenly forest Where, beyond every essence, a new essence awaits.

A man should not love the moon. An ax should not lose weight in his hand. His garden should smell of rotting apples, And grow a fair amount of nettles.

Grow your tree of falsehood from a small grain of truth.

Our memory is childish and it saves only what we need.

It's true that what is morbid is highly valued today, and so you may think that I am only joking or that I've devised just one more means of praising Art with the help of irony.