Is it possible to write a poem or are these words just screams of outlaws exiled to the desert?
If what we think of ourselves were true, the planet would overflow with geniuses.
Our desire to say more grows bigger and what to say about it, except that saying is not always about saying, growing is not always about growing.
Nothing reminds us of an awakening more than rain.
Love is almost never simple.
A breeze, a forgotten summer, a smile, all can fit into a storefront window.