I am my own muse. I am the subject I know best. The subject I want to better.

Your word travels the entirety of space and reaches my cells which are my stars then goes to yours which are my light.

I am that clumsy human, always loving, loving, loving. And loving. And never leaving.

I wanted to tell you that my whole being opened for you. Since I fell in love with you everything is transformed and is full of beauty... love is like an aroma, like a current, like rain.

I never knew I was a surrealist till Andre Breton came to Mexico and told me I was.

I wish I could do whatever I liked behind the curtain of “madness”. Then: I’d arrange flowers, all day long, I’d paint; pain, love and tenderness, I would laugh as much as I feel like at the stupidity of others, and they would all say: “Poor thing, she’s crazy!” (Above all I would laugh at my own stupidity.) I would build my world which while I lived, would be in agreement with all the worlds. The day, or the hour, or the minute that I lived would be mine and everyone else’s - my madness would not be an escape from “reality”.

I don’t like the gringos at all. They are very boring and all have faces like unbaked rolls.