while the scientist sees everything that happens in one point of space, the poet feels everything that happens in one point of time.

Life is a message scribbled in the dark.

...in my dreams the world would come alive, becoming so captivatingly majestic, free and ethereal, that afterwards it would be oppressive to breathe the dust of this painted life.

Some people—and I am one of them—hate happy ends. We feel cheated. Harm is the norm. Doom should not jam. The avalanche stopping in its tracks a few feet above the cowering village behaves not only unnaturally but unethically.

There is only one real number: one. And love, apparently, is the best exponent of this singularity.

It is strange how a memory will grow into a wax figure, how the cherub grows suspiciously prettier as its frame darkens with age-strange, strange are the mishaps of memory.

Literature and butterflies are the two sweetest passions known to man.