When I Curse Fate, It's Not Me,

They Used To Pour Millet On Graves Or Poppy Seeds To Feed The Dead Who Would Come Disguised As Birds. I Put This Book Here For You, Who Once Lived So That You Should Visit Us No More.

In A Room Where People Unanimously Maintain A Conspiracy Of Silence, One Word Of Truth Sounds Like A Pistol Shot.

Yet Falling In Love Is Not The Same As Being Able To Love.

Irony Is The Glory Of Slaves.

I Was Left Behind With The Immensity Of Existing Things. A Sponge, Suffering Because It Cannot Saturate Itself; A River, Suffering Because Reflections Of Clouds And Trees Are Not Clouds And Trees.