The more transparent the writing, the more visible the poetry.

She let him finish, scratching his head with the tips of her fingers, and without his having revealed that he was weeping from love, she recognized immediately the oldest sobs in the history of man.

Just as real events are forgotten, some that never were can be in our memories as if they happened.

We'll grow old waiting.

He was carrying a suitcase with clothing in order to stay and another just like it with almost two thousand letters that she had written him. They were arranged by date in bundles ties with colored ribbons, and they were all unopened.

and it was always without pretensions of loving or being loved although always in the hope of finding something that resembled love but without the problems of love.

Why do you insist on talking about what does not exist?