Poet: Gardener Of Epitaphs.

For Every Language That Becomes Extinct, An Image Of Man Disappears.

I Thought That The World Was A Vast System Of Signs, A Conversation Between Giant Beings. My Actions, The Cricket's Saw, The Star's Blink, Were Nothing But Pauses And Syllables, Scattered Phrases From That Dialogue. What Word Could It Be, Of Which I Was Only A Syllable? Who Speaks The Word? To Whom Is It Spoken?

To Love Is To Undress Our Names.

Man Does Not Speak Because He Thinks; He Thinks Because He Speaks. Or Rather, Speaking Is No Different Than Thinking: To Speak Is To Think.

The World Is Born When Two People Kiss