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

I crave your mouth, your voice, your hair. Silent and starving, I prowl through the streets. Bread does not nourish me, dawn disrupts me, all day I hunt for the liquid measure of your steps.

Like them you are tall and taciturn, and you are sad, all at once, like a voyage.

We must dream our way.

I want to do with you what the spring does with the cherry trees.

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.

I want to do to you what spring does with the cherry trees.