Poets Don't Draw. They Unravel Their Handwriting

Since The Day Of My Birth, My Death Began Its Walk. It Is Walking Toward Me, Without Hurrying.

The Job Of The Poet (a Job Which Can't Be Learned) Consists Of Placing Those Objects Of The Visible World Which Have Become Invisible Due To The Glue Of Habit, In An Unusual Position Which Strikes The Soul And Gives Them A Tragic Force.

Lying Is The Only Art Form That The Public Sanctions And Instinctively Prefers To Reality.

I Have Lost My Seven Best Friends, Which Is To Say God Has Had Mercy On Me Seven Times Without Realizing It. He Lent A Friendship, Took It From Me, Sent Me Another.

It Is Not I Who Become Addicted, It Is My Body.