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

Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.

Four billion people on this earth, but my imagination is still the same. It's bad with large numbers. It's still taken by particularity. It flits in the dark like a flashlight, illuminating only random faces while all the rest go blindly by, never coming to mind and never really missed. . . . I can't tell you how much I pass over in silence.

This terrifying world is not devoid of charms, of the mornings that make waking up worthwhile.

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

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

I'm drowning in papers.