Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.

Alcohol is barren. The words a man speaks in the night of drunkenness fade like the darkness itself at the coming of day.

Stormy skies, says Ernesto. He grieved for them. Summer rain. Childhood.

He says he’s lonely, horribly lonely because of this love he feels for her. She says she’s lonely too. She doesn’t say why.

Journalism without a moral position is impossible. Every journalist is a moralist. It's absolutely unavoidable.

Madness is like intelligence, you know. You can't explain it. Just like intelligence. It comes on you, it fills you, and then you understand it. But when it goes away you can't understand it at all any longer.

You alone became the outer surface of my life, the side I never see, and you will be that, the unknown part of me, until I die.