We must kill the false woman who is preventing the live one from breathing.

Everything ends with flowers.

There is no greater love than the love the wolf feels for the lamb-it-doesn’t-eat.

Writing is the passageway, the entrance, the exit, the dwelling place of the other in me.

Love is when you suddenly wake up as a cannibal, and not just any old cannibal, or else wake up destined for devourment.

Perhaps what I do not manage to operate rapidly enough is the passage between the outside and the inside.

Meditation needs no results. Meditation can have itself as an end, I meditate without words and on nothingness. What tangles my life is writing.