Donde termina el arco iris, en tu alma o en el horizonte? Where does the rainbow end, in your soul or on the horizon?

Eating alone is a disappointment. But not eating matter more, is hollow and green, has thorns like a chain of fish hooks, trailing from the heart, clawing at your insides. Hunger feels like pincers, like the bite of crabs; it burns, burns, and has no fur. Let us sit down soon to eat with all those who haven't eaten; let us spread great tablecloths, put salt in lakes of the world, set up planetary bakeries, tables with strawberries in snow, and a plate like the moon itself from which we can all eat. For now I ask no more than the justice of eating.

Hour of nostalgia, hour of happiness, hour of solitude.

In the distance someone is singing.

When everything seems to be set to show me off as intelligent, the fool I always keep hidden takes over all that I say.

When I got the chance I asked them a slew of questions. They offered to burn me; it was the only thing they knew.

All paths lead to the same goal: to convey to others what we are.