As I walk, I construct perfect sentences that I cannot remember later at home. I don’t know if the ineffable poetry of those sentences derived from what they were or from their never having been (written).

I'd woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.

The chill of what I won't feel gnaws at my present heart.

Yes, talking to people makes me sleepy.

I've always rejected being understood. To be understood is to prostitute oneself. I prefer to be taken seriously for what I'm not, remaining humanly unknown, with naturalness and all due respect

Should I be what I think? But I think about being so many things!

Everything is theater.