I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

Give me silence, water, hope Give me struggle, iron, volcanoes.

Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.

I no longer love her, that's certain, but maybe I love her. Love is so short, forgetting is so long.

For me writing is like breathing. I could not live without breathing and I could not live without writing.

You can say anything you want, yessir, but it's the words that sing, they soar and descend...I bow to them...I love them, I cling to them, I run them down, I bite into them, I melt them down...I love words so much...The unexpected ones...The ones I wait for greedily or stalk until, suddenly, they drop.

I am a book of snow, a spacious hand, an open meadow, a circle that waits, I belong to the earth and its winter.