When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.

I like being near the top of a mountain. One can't get lost here.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.

It's a well-known fact: in order to follow doctor's orders, you have to be healthy as a horse.

In the language of poetry, where every word is weighed, nothing is usual or normal. Not a single stone and not a single cloud above it. Not a single day and not a single night after it. And above all, not a single existence, not anyone's existence in this world.

I am a tarsier and a tarsier's son, the grandson and great-grandson of tarsiers, a tiny creature, made up of two pupils and whatever simply could not be left out.

Poorly prepared for the dignity of life, I barely keep up with the pace of the action imposed. Reality demands.