I love all things, not because they are passionate or sweet-smelling but because, I don't know, because this ocean is yours, and mine: these buttons and wheels and little forgotten treasures, fans upon whose feathers love has scattered its blossoms, glasses, knives and scissors -- all bear the trace of someone's fingers on their handle or surface, the trace of a distant hand lost in the depths of forgetfulness.

The road made wet by the water of August shines like it was cut in full moonlight

But from each crime are born bullets that will one day seek out in you where the heart lies.

There were thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit. There were grief and the ruins, and you were the miracle.

Give me your hand out of the depths sown by your sorrows.

We bear the sole, relentless tenderness.

Here I love you and the horizon hides you in vain. I love you still among these cold things. Sometimes my kisses go on those heavy vessels that cross the sea towards no arrival. I see myself forgotten like those old anchors. The piers sadden when the afternoon moors there. My life grows tired, hungry to no purpose. I love what I do not have. You are so far. My loathing wrestles with the slow twilights. But night comes and starts to sing to me.