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

Only what touches us closely preoccupies us. We prepare in solitude to face it. (The Little Book of Unsuspected Subversion)

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.

As long as we are not chased from our words we have nothing to fear. As long as our utterances keep their sound we have a voice. As long as our words keep their sense we have a soul.

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.

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