Two things make a story. The net and the air that falls through the net.

When I sleep every night, what am I called or not called? And when I wake, who am I if I was not I while I slept?

In love, you have loosened yourself like seawater

Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

I got lost in the night, without the light of your eyelids, and when the night surrounded me I was born again: I was the owner of my own darkness.

The tomato offers its gift of fiery color and cool completeness.

If nothing saves us from death, at least love should save us from life