Utopia is on the horizon. I move two steps closer; it moves two steps further away. I walk another ten steps and the horizon runs ten steps further away. As much as I may walk, I'll never reach it. So what's the point of utopia? The point is this: to keep walking.

The poet, distracted by politics, asks of poetry that it make itself useful like metal or flour, that it get ready to stain its face with coal dust and fight body to body.

The world is a heap of people, a sea of tiny flames.

Recordar: To remember; from the Latin records, to pass back through the heart

I'm attracted to soccer's capacity for beauty. When well played, the game is a dance with a ball.

Utopia lies at the horizon. When I draw nearer by two steps, it retreats two steps. If I proceed ten steps forward, it swiftly slips ten steps ahead. No matter how far I go, I can never reach it. What, then, is the purpose of utopia? It is to cause us to advance.

If the past has nothing to say to the present, history may go on sleeping undisturbed in the closet where the system keeps its old disguises.