-Before leaving my room i turn, and (stooping through the morning) kiss this pillow, dear where our heads lived and were.

Really unreal world, will you perhaps do the breathing for me while I am away?

The artist is not a man who describes, but a man who feels.

somewhere i have never traveled, gladly beyond any experience, your eyes have their silence; in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me, or which i cannot touch because they are too near

most people are perfectly afraid of silence

since the thing perhaps is to eat flowers and not to be afraid

you said Is there anything which is dead or alive more beautiful than my body,to have in your fingers (trembling ever so little)? Looking into your eyes Nothing,i said,except the air of spring smelling of never and forever. ....and through the lattice which moved as if a hand is touched by a hand(which moved as though fingers touch a girl's breast, lightly) Do you believe in always,the wind said to the rain I am too busy with my flowers to believe,the rain answered