With the passing of time, as well as the social evolution and genetic exchange, we ended up putting our conscience in the colour of blood and in the salt of tears, and, as if that were not enough, we made our eyes into a kind of mirror turned inwards, with the result that they often show without reserve what we are verbally trying to deny.

Some drivers have already got out of their cars, prepared to push the stranded vehicle to a spot where it will not hold up the traffic, they beat furiously on the closed windows, the man inside turns his head in their direction, first to one side then to the other, he is clearly shouting something, to judge by the movements of his mouth he appears to be repeating some words, no one word but three, as turns out to be the case when someone finally manages to open the door, I am blind.

No human being can achieve all he or she desires in this life except in dreams, so good night all.

I write to try to understand, and because I have nothing better to do.

I am a better novelist than a poet, playwright, or essayist.

This must be what it means to be a ghost, being certain that life exists, because your four senses say so, and yet unable to see it.

Words have their own hierarchy, their own protocol, their own artistic titles, their own plebeian stigmas.