Existentialists are monumentally and monotonously serious; they don't like to joke.

I'm drowning in papers.

A Note Life is the only way to get covered in leaves, catch your breath on the sand, rise on wings; to be a dog, or stroke its warm fur; to tell pain from everything it's not; to squeeze inside events, dawdle in views, to seek the least of all possible mistakes. An extraordinary chance to remember for a moment a conversation held with the lamp switched off; and if only once to stumble upon a stone, end up soaked in one downpour or another, mislay your keys in the grass; and to follow a spark on the wind with your eyes; and to keep on not knowing something important.

I am who I am. A coincidence no less unthinkable than any other.

All is mine but nothing owned, nothing owned for memory, and mine only while I look.

Generally speaking, life is so rich and full of variety; you have to remember all the time that there is a comical side to everything.

Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.