In every tragedy, an element of comedy is preserved. Comedy is just tragedy reversed.

Something doesn't start at its usual time. Something doesn't happen as it should. Someone was always, always here, then suddenly disappeared and stubbornly stays disappeared.

It's just not easy to explain to someone else what you don't understand yourself.

No one in my family has ever died of love. What happened, happened, but nothing myth-inspiring.

Is a decision made in advance really any kind of choice?

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

But they know about us, they know, the four corners, and the chairs nearby us. Discerning shadows also know, and even the table keeps quiet.