The Ideal Place For Me Is The

The Sea Where Living Creatures Were At One Time Immersed Is Now Enclosed Within Their Bodies.

Cities, Like Dreams, Are Made Of Desires And Fears.

The Inferno Of The Living Is Not Something That Will Be; If There Is One, It Is What Is Already Here, The Inferno Where We Live Every Day, That We Form By Being Together. There Are Two Ways To Escape Suffering It. The First Is Easy For Many: Accept The Inferno And Become Such A Part Of It That You Can No Longer See It. The Second Is Risky And Demands Constant Vigilance And Apprehension: Seek And Learn To Recognize Who And What, In The Midst Of Inferno, Are Not Inferno, Then Make Them Endure, Give Them Space.

It Was The Hour In Which Objects Lose The Consistency Of Shadow That Accompanies Them During The Night And Gradually Reacquire Colors, But Seem To Cross Meanwhile An Uncertain Limbo, Faintly Touched, Just Breathed On By Light; The Hour In Which One Is Least Certain Of The World's Existence.

For Those Who Pass It Without Entering, The City Is One Thing; It Is Another For Those Who Are Trapped By It And Never Leave. There Is The City Where You Arrive For The First Time; And There Is Another City Which You Leave Never To Return. Each Deserves A Different Name; Perhaps I Have Already Spoken Of Irene Under Other Names; Perhaps I Have Spoken Only Of Irene.