I meet you. I remember you. Who are you? You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. How could I know this city was tailor-made for love? How could I know you fit my body like a glove? I like you. How unlikely. I like you. How slow all of a sudden. How sweet. You cannot know. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. You’re destroying me. You’re good for me. I have time. Please, devour me. Deform me to the point of ugliness. Why not you? Why not you in this city and in this night, so like other cities and other nights you can hardly tell the difference? I beg of you.

Their voices reach out into the empty yard, plunge deep into the hills, go right through the heart.

I see journalists as the manual workers, the laborers of the word. Journalism can only be literature when it is passionate.

The thing that's between us is fascination, and the fascination resides in our being alike. Whether you're a man or a woman, the fascination resides in finding out that we're alike.

When the past is recaptured by the imagination, breath is put back into life.

Get rid of things or you'll spend your whole life tidying up.

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.