Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.

I do not cut my life up into days but my days into lives, each day, each hour, an entire life.

Love, you are eternal like springtime.

…Perhaps this momentary life of ours is only the light that divides our infinite origin from our infinite end.

I am not I. I am this one walking beside me whom I do not see, whom at times I manage to visit, and whom at other times I forget; who remains calm and silent while I talk, and forgives, gently, when I hate, who walks where I am not, who will remain standing when I die.

Sharp nostalgia, infinite and terrible, for what I already possess.

A fantasy can be equivalent to a paradise and if the fantasy passes, better yet, because eternal paradise would be very boring.