As time goes by, as time goes by, the whip-crack of the years, the precipice of illusions, the ravine that swallows up all human endeavour except the struggle to survive.

No one pays attention to these killings, but the secret of the world is hidden in them.

If I were to say what I really think I would be arrested or shut away in a lunatic asylum. Come on, I am sure that it would be the same for everyone.

When you die of sorrow it's as if you've broken all the bones in your body, bruised yourself all over, cracked your skull. That's sorrow.

Metaphors are our way of losing ourselves in semblances or treading water in a sea of seeming.

In some lost fold of the past, we wanted to be lions and we're no more than castrated cats

Poetry is the one thing that isn't contaminated, the one thing that isn't part of the game.