I will make myself a poet out of the act of dreaming you, and my prose, when it describes your Beauty, will contain the rhythms of poetry, the curves of strophes, the sudden splendors to be found in immortal verses.

Learn to enjoy everything, not for what those things are, but for the ideas and dreams they provoke.

The absurd saves us, despite the tedium, from that state of soul that begins with the sweet fury of dreaming.

Like the flight of a bird that seems to be approaching but never arrives, that same weariness hovers above what I would like to say about you, but the matter of my sentences is incapable of imitating the substance or the sound of your footsteps or the trace left behind by your glances, or the sad, empty color of the gestures you never made.

Moon of lost memories shining down on the dark landscape, bright in the stillness of my imperfect understanding. My being feels you vaguely, as if it were an invisible belt encircling you.

Be Total Night, become the Only Night, and let my whole self be lost and forgotten in you, and may my dreams shine like stars in your body full of distance and denial …

My soul is a hidden orchestra; I do not know what instruments, what violins and harps, drums and tambours, sound and clash inside me. I know myself only as a symphony.

For Vicente Guedes, being self-aware was an art and a morality; dreaming was a religion.

It’s as if someone were using my life to beat me with.