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.

However much you feed a wolf, it always looks to the forest. We are all wolves of the dense forest of Eternity.

No one has ever stepped twice into the same river. But did anyone ever step twice into the same book?

My verses are my diary. My poetry is a poetry of proper names.

And soon all of us will sleep under the earth, we who never let each other sleep above it.

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

I am a moonbeam, free to go whenever I choose.