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

So the freshness lives on in a lemon, in the sweet-smelling house of the rind, the proportions, arcane and acerb.

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

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

If we were not so single-minded about keeping our lives moving and for once could do nothing, perhaps a huge silence might interrupt this sadness of never understanding ourselves and of threatening ourselves with death Perhaps the world can teach us as when everything seems dead but later proves to be alive.

Only do not forget, if I wake up crying it's only because in my dream I'm a lost child hunting through the leaves of the night for your hands.

To love is to tilt with the lightning, two bodies routed by a single honey's sweet.