I am not my own friend.Time cuts me in two.

The living owe it to those who no longer can speak to tell their story for them.

Language is the only homeland.

All was taken away from you: white dresses, wings, even existence. Yet I believe you, messengers. There, where the world is turned inside out, a heavy fabric embroidered with stars and beasts, you stroll, inspecting the trustworthy seams.

There was a time when only wise books were read helping us to bear our pain and misery. This, after all, is not quite the same as leafing through a thousand works fresh from psychiatric clinics. And yet the world is different from what it seems to be and we are other than how we see ourselves in our ravings.

Consolation Calm down. Both your sins and your good deeds will be lost in oblivion.

On the day the world ends A bee circles a clover, A fisherman mends a glimmering net.