The Memory Of Man Is As Old

Does Not Everything Depend On Our Interpretation Of The Silence Around Us?

A Diary Is The Last Place To Go If You Wish To Seek The Truth About A Person. Nobody Dares To Make The Final Confession To Themselves On Paper: Or At Least, Not About Love.

Poverty Is A Great Cutter-off And Riches A Great Shutter-off.

No History Much? Perhaps. Only This Ominous Dark Beauty Flowering Under Veils, Trapped In The Spectrum Of A Dying Style: A Village Like An Instinct Left To Rust, Composed Around The Echo Of A Pistol-shot.

Who Invented The Human Heart, I Wonder? Tell Me, And Then Show Me The Place Where He Was Hanged.