Perhaps this war will pass like the others which divided us leaving us dead, killing us along with the killers but the shame of this time puts its burning fingers to our faces. Who will erase the ruthlessness hidden in innocent blood?

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

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where. I love you simply, without problems or pride: I love you in this way because I do not know any other way of loving but this, in which there is no I or you, so intimate that your hand upon my chest is my hand, so intimate that when I fall asleep your eyes close.

It is not so much light that falls over the world extended by your body its suffocating snow, as brightness, pouring itself out of you, as if you were burning inside. Under your skin the moon is alive.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

With which stars do they go on speaking,the rivers that never reach the sea?

I was the owner of my own darkness.