As the end approaches, there are no longer any images from memory - there are only words.

I gazed at every mirror on the planet, not one gave back my reflection.

The truth is that we live out our lives putting off all that can be put off; perhaps we all know deep down that we are immortal and that sooner or later all men will do and know all things.

Another school declares that all time has already transpired and that our life is only the crepuscular and no doubt falsified and mutilated memory or reflection of an irrecoverable process.

Imprecision is tolerable and verisimilar in literature, because we always tend towards it in life.

I am not sure of anything, I know nothing . . . can you imagine that I don't even know the date of my own death?

Time, which despoils castles, enriches verses.