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.

Out of every hundred people, those who always know better: fifty-two.

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.

The joy of writing. The power of preserving. Revenge of a mortal hand.

After every war someone has to tidy up.

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

I'm fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.