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

Then love knew it was called love. And when I lifted my eyes to your name, suddenly your heart showed me my way

If suddenly you do not exist, If suddenly you are not living, I shall go on living. I do not dare, I do not dare to write it, if you die. I shall go on living.

Someone will ask later, sometimes searching for a name, his own or someone's else's why I neglected his sadness or his love... But I didn't have enough time or ink for everyone. Or maybe it was the strain of the city, of time the cold heart of the clocks.

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

We came by night to the Fortunate Isles, And lay like fish Under the net of our kisses.

We must dream our way.