In the morning, you tear up the pages of your fever, but every word naturally leads you back to its color, its night.
The hand opens to the word, opens to distance.
One wound is enough to feed the open wounds of the sky.
By the light of our insistent truths we wander into death
Only what touches us closely preoccupies us. We prepare in solitude to face it. (The Little Book of Unsuspected Subversion)
One rose is enough for the dawn