Should I be what I think? But I think about being so many things!
I’m losing my taste for everything, including even my taste for finding everything tasteless.
We are two abysses - a well staring at the sky.
My homeland is the portuguese language.
My soul is impatient with itself, as with a bothersome child; its restlessness keeps growing and is forever the same. Everything interests me, but nothing holds me. I attend to everything, dreaming all the while.
Writing is like paying myself a formal visit.