“Nothing’s a gift, it’s all on loan.”

I prefer the absurdity of writing poems to the absurdity of not writing poems.

When I pronounce the word Future, the first syllable already belongs to the past. When I pronounce the word Silence, I destroy it.

Even a graphomaniac is an extremely complicated person.

Get to know other worlds, if only for comparison.

I’m drowning in papers.

Their faith will make it easier for them to live and die.

Whatever inspiration is, it’s born from a continuous “I don’t know.

At the very beginning of my creative life I loved humanity. I wanted to do something good for mankind. Soon I understood that it isn’t possible to save mankind.

You can find the entire cosmos lurking in its least remarkable objects.

I’m fighting against the bad poet who is prone to using too many words.

Secret codes resound. Doubts and intentions come to light.

Any knowledge that doesn’t lead to new questions quickly dies out: it fails to maintain the temperature required for sustaining life.

God was finally going to believe in a man both good and strong, but good and strong are still two different men.

My choices are rejections, since there is no other way, but what I reject is more numerous, denser, more demanding than before. A little poem, a sigh, at the cost of indescribable losses.

Existentialists are monumentally and monotonously serious; they don’t like to joke.

Nothing can ever happen twice. In consequence, the sorry fact is that we arrive here improvised and leave without the chance to practice.