One Had To Live A Long Time

Between The Covers Of The Books That No One Had Ever Read Again, In The Old Parchments Damaged By Dampness, A Livid Flower Had Prospered, And In The Air That Had Been The Purest And Brightest In The House An Unbearable Smell Of Rotten Memories Floated.

Always Tell What You Feel. Do What You Think.

Just Because Someone Does Not Love You As You Want, It Does Not Mean That You Do Not Love With All His Being.

I Would Like For My Books To Have Been Recognized Posthumously, At Least In Capitalist Countries, Where They Turn You Into A Kind Of Merchandise.

We'll Grow Old Waiting.