Woodcutter. Cut my shadow from me. Free me from the torment of being without fruit. Why was I born among mirrors? Day goes round and round me. The night copies me in all its stars. I want to live without my reflection. And then let me dream that ants and thistledown are my leaves and my parrots.

Pero yo ya no soy yo Ni mi casa es ya mi casa. But now I am no longer I, nor is my house any longer my house.

Besides black art, there is only automation and mechanization.

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.

My head is full of fire and grief and my tongue runs wild, pierced with shards of glass.

The day hunger disappears, the world will see the greatest spiritual explosion humanity has ever seen.

The duende....Where is the duende? Through the empty archway a wind of the spirit enters, blowing insistently over the heads of the dead, in search of new landscapes and unknown accents: a wind with the odour of a child's saliva, crushed grass, and medusa's veil, announcing the endless baptism of freshly created things.