Blessed are those who do not entrust their lives to anyone.

However deep I plunge into myself, all the paths of my dreams lead into clearings of anxiety.

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

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

Everything wearies me, even those things that don’t.

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.

I’m a perpetual unfolding of connected and disconnected images — always disguised as something external — that stand between men and the light if I’m awake, or between ghosts and the visible dark if I’m asleep. I really do not know how to distinguish one from the other, nor would I venture to affirm that I’m not sleeping when I’m awake, or that I’m

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.

the cold that exists in space, but the cold