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

You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

I slide my arm from under the sleeper's head and it is numb, full of swarming pins, on the tip of each, waiting to be counted, the fallen angels sit.

Even boredom should be described with gusto. How many things are happening on a day when nothing happens?

I'm drowning in papers.

Well, one is inspired by the whole of life, one's own and somebody else's. You know how sometimes you hear great music, and music is completely untranslatable into words, into any words. A certain tension that is born when one listens to music could aid you in expressing something absolutely different.

And whatever I do will become forever what I've done.