I walked into my own book, seeking peace.

The collision between their resemblances, shedding the odor of tamarisk and sand, of rotted shells and dying sea-weeds, their love like the ink of squids, a banquet of poisons.

Our love of each other is like one long shadow kissing, without hope of reality.

Don’t say anything, because I see that you understand me, and I am afraid of your understanding.

I want crusades and martyrdom. I find the world too small.

I prefer fairy tales. I am wrapped in lies which do not penetrate my soul. As if the lies I tell were like costumes. The shell of mystery can break and grow again over night.

I am constantly reconstructing a pattern of something forever lost and which I cannot forget; I catch the odors of the past on street corners and I am aware of the men who will be born tomorrow.

There is a fissure in my vision and madness will always rush through. Lean over me, at the bedside of my madness, and let me stand without crutches.

I writhed within my own life, seeking a free avenue to carry the molten cries, to melt the pain into a cauldron of words for everyone to dip into, everyone who sought words for their own pain.