I've come within range of hate. Terrifying, its tremors, its dizzying obsessions. Hate's like a swordfish invisible in the water, knifing suddenly into sight with blood on its blade- clear water misleads you.

I like on the table, when we're speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

In your eyes of mourning the land of dreams begins.

The Truth is in the prolouge. Death to the romantic fool., the expert in solitary confinement.

White bee, even when you are gone you buzz in my soul You live again in time, slender and silent.

He who has nothing—it has been said many times—has nothing to lose but his chains.

Will our life not be a tunnel between two vague clarities? Or will it not be a clarity between two dark triangles?