Sometimes, when I wake up at night, I feel invisible hands weaving my destiny.

There are ships sailing to many ports, but not a single one goes where life is not painful.

I bear the wounds of all the battles I avoided.

Without madness what is man But a wholesome beast, Postponed corpse that begets?

If after I die, people want to write my biography, there is nothing simpler. They only need two dates: the date of my birth and the date of my death. Between one and another, every day is mine.

I’ve dreamed a lot. I’m tired now from dreaming but not tired of dreaming. No one tires of dreaming, because to dream is to forget, and forgetting does not weigh on us, it is a dreamless sleep throughout which we remain awake. In dreams I have achieved everything.

I know nothing and my heart aches