Memory Is A Mirror That Scandalously Lies.

Everything Can Be Killed Except Nostalgia For The Kingdom, We Carry It In The Color Of Our Eyes, In Every Love Affair, In Everything That Deeply Torments And Unties And Tricks.

She Would Smile And Show No Surprise, Convinced As She Was, The Same As I, That Casual Meetings Are Apt To Be Just The Opposite, And That People Who Make Dates Are The Same Kind Who Need Lines On Their Writing Paper, Or Who Always Squeeze Up From The Bottom On A Tube Of Toothpaste.

Wordplay Hides A Key To Reality That The Dictionary Tries In Vain To Lock Inside Every Free Word.

Only In Dreams, In Poetry, In Play Do We Sometimes Arrive At What We Were Before We Were This Thing That, Who Knows, We Are.

You're Like A Witness. You're The One Who Goes To The Museum And Looks At The Paintings. I Mean The Paintings Are There And You're In The Museum Too, Near And Far Away At The Same Time. I'm A Painting. Rocamadour Is A Painting. Etienne Is A Painting, This Room Is A Painting. You Think That You're In The Room But You're Not. You're Looking At The Room, You're Not In The Room.