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

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

What shall I do, singer and first-born, in a world where the deepest black is grey, and inspiration is kept in a thermos? with all this immensity in a measured world?

Meanings are translatable. Words are untranslatable… More briefly – a word is translatable, its sound is not.

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.

Wings are freedom only when they are wide open in flight. On one's back they are a heavy weight.