One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.

It is very hard to live with silence. The real silence is death and this is terrible. To approach this silence, it is necessary to journey to the desert. You do not go to the desert to find identity, but to loses it, to lose your personality, to be anonymous. You make yourself void. You become silence. You become more silent than the silence around you. And then something extraordinary happens: you hear silence speak.

What is not grasped has all the chances to become real.

One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.

The hand opens to the word, opens to distance.

One rose is enough for the dawn

In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.