Dreams Have As Much Influences As Actions.

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

Everything That Is Sacred And That Wishes To Remain So Must Envelop Itself In Mystery.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.