I dream of a grave, deep and narrow, where we could clasp each other in our arms as with clamps, and I would hide my face in you and you would hide your face in me, and nobody would ever see us any more

I can't feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.

Writing [is] a form of prayer.

I won't give up the diary again. I must hold on here, it is the only place I can.

The truth is always an abyss.

Now I can look at you in peace; I don't eat you any more.

If the book we are reading does not wake us, as with a fist hammering on our skull, why then do we read it?