This Work Is A Torture On The

If The Grape Is Made Of Wine, Then Perhaps We Are The Words That Tell Who We Are

We Are All Mortal Until The First Kiss And The Second Glass Of Wine.

I Am Quite Prehistoric, Absolutely Prehistoric.

To Narrate Is To Give Oneself: It Seems Obvious That Literature, As An Effort To Communicate Fully, Will Continue To Be Blocked So Long As Misery And Illiteracy Exist, And So Long As The Possessors Of Power Continue To Carry On With Impunity Their Policy Of Collective Imbecilization Through The Mass Media.

Memory. My Poison, My Food.