sometimes i get up at dawn, and even my soul is wet.

I stood on the balcony dark with mourning... hoping the earth would spread its wings in my uninhabited love.

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

And that's why i have to go back to so many places there to find myself and constantly examine myself with no witness but the moon and then whistle with joy, ambling over rocks and clods of earth, with no task but to live, with no family but the road.

Day-colored wine, night-colored wine, wine with purple feet or wine with topaz blood, wine, starry child of earth.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes, my rage, forgetting everything.

I love all things, not only the grand but the infinitely small: thimble, spurs, plates, flower vases.