Hay algo más tonto en la vida Que llamarse Pablo Neruda? (is there anything more insane in this life than being called Pablo Neruda?)

And the verse falls to the soul like dew to the pasture.

I'm not me but living matter fermenting and forming its own shapes in the fruitfulness of every day.

Take it all back. Life is boring, except for flowers, sunshine, your perfect legs. A glass of cold water when you are really thirsty. The way bodies fit together. Fresh and young and sweet. Coffee in the morning. These are just moments. I struggle with the in-betweens. I just want to never stop loving like there is nothing else to do, because what else is there to do?

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

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

Everything is ceremony in the wild garden of childhood.