Deciding what is being talked about is a kind of interpretive bet.

And we, inhabitants of the great coral of the Cosmos, believe the atom (which still we cannot see) to be full matter, whereas, it too, like everything else, is but an embroidery of voids in the Void, and we give the name of being, dense and even eternal, to that dance of inconsistencies, that infinite extension that is identified with absolute Nothingness and that spins from its own non-being the illusion of everything.

If you interact with things in your life, everything is constantly changing. And if nothing changes, you're an idiot.

Mystical additions and subtractions always come out the way you want.

When the poet is in love, he is incapable of writing poetry on love. He has to write when he remembers that he was in love.

What is love? There is nothing in the world, neither man nor Devil nor any thing, that I hold as suspect as love, for it penetrates the soul more than any other thing. Nothing exists that so fills and binds the heart as love does. Therefore, unless you have those weapons that subdue it, the soul plunges through love into an immense abyss.

There are more people than you think who want to have a challenging experience, in which they are obliged to reflect about the past.