The desire to die was my one and only concern; to it I have sacrificed everything, even death.

Life is merely a fracas on an unmapped terrain, and the universe a geometry stricken with epilepsy.

Even when nothing happens, everything seems too much for me. What can be said, then, in the presence of an event, any event?

Jealousy - that jumble of secret worship and ostensible aversion.

No one can do without some semblance of immortality, and even less will they deny themselves the right to seek it out in the form of this or that reputation, starting with the literary... Since death has come to be accepted by all as the absolute end, everyone writes.

The more we try to rest ourselves from our Egos, the deeper we sink into it.

I am like a broken puppet whose eyes have fallen inside.