I Dream Of Lost Vocabularies That Might

We Are All Burning In Time, But Each Is Consumed At His Own Speed.

The Heart Lies To Itself Because It Must.

To Hear The Faint Sound Of Oars In The Silence As A Rowboat Comes Slowly Out And Then Goes Back Is Truly Worth All The Years Of Sorrow That Are To Come.

Question The Bravery. Say It's Not Courage. Call It A Passion.

Duende I Can't Remember Her Name. It's Not As Though I've Been In Bed With That Many Women. The Truth Is I Can't Even Remember Her Face. I Kind Of Know How Strong Her Thighs Were, And Her Beauty. But What I Won't Forget Is The Way She Tore Open The Barbecued Chicken With Her Hands, And Wiped The Grease On Her Breasts.