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

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

Who sleeps at night? No one is sleeping.
 In the cradle a child is screaming.
 An old man sits over his death, and anyone
 young enough talks to his love, breathes 
into her lips, looks into her eyes.

An amazing observation: it is precisely for feelings that one needs time, not for thought. ... Feelings, obviously, are more demanding than thought.

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

One should write only those books from whose absence one suffers. In short: the ones you want on your own desk.

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