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

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

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.

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

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

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

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.