Once you let yourself grow close to someone, cutting the ties could be painful.

Autumn finally arrived. And when it did, I came to a decision. Something had to give: I couldn't keep on living like this.

Artists are those who can evade the verbose.

Memory is like fiction; or else it's fiction that's like memory.

If you remember me, then I don't care if everyone else forgets.

We knew exactly what we wanted in each other. And even so, it ended. One day it stopped, as if the film simply slipped off the reel.

There was just one moon. That familiar, yellow, solitary moon. The same moon that silently floated over fields of pampas grass, the moon that rose--a gleaming, round saucer--over the calm surface of lakes, that tranquilly beamed down on the rooftops of fast-asleep houses. The same moon that brought the high tide to shore, that softly shone on the fur of animals and enveloped and protected travelers at night. The moon that, as a crescent, shaved slivers from the soul--or, as a new moon, silently bathed the earth in its own loneliness. THAT moon.