What is this gypsy passion for separation, this readiness to rush off when we've just met? My head rests in my hands as I realize, looking into the night that no one turning over our letters has yet understood how completely and how deeply faithless we are, which is to say: how true we are to ourselves.

What is the main thing in love? to know and to hide. To know about the one you love and to hide that you love. At times the hiding (shame) overpowers the knowing (passion). The passion for the hidden - the passion for the revealed.

I opened my veins. Unstoppably life spurts out with no remedy. Now I set out bowls and plates. Every bowl will be shallow. Every plate will be small. And overflowing their rims, into the black earth, to nourish the rushes unstoppably without cure, gushes poetry.

Women talk about love and silent about lovers, men - on the contrary: Speaking of mistresses, but are silent about love.

My desk, most loyal friend thank you. You've been with me on every road I've taken. My scar and my protection.

For the spell is older than experience. For the tale is older than the record.

The one that burned the hottest is the first to die.