If Nothing Saves Us From Death, At

Someone Will Ask Later, Sometimes Searching For A Name, His Own Or Someone's Else's Why I Neglected His Sadness Or His Love... But I Didn't Have Enough Time Or Ink For Everyone. Or Maybe It Was The Strain Of The City, Of Time The Cold Heart Of The Clocks.

All Paths Lead To The Same Goal: To Convey To Others What We Are.

I Had No More Alphabet Than The Journeying Of The Swallows, The Pure And Tiny Water Of The Small, Fiery Bird That Dances Rising From The Pollen.

The Birds Of Night Peck At The First Stars That Flash Like My Soul When I Love You.

Sometimes A Piece Of Sun Burned Like A Coin In My Hand.