“Death is the stone into which our oblivion hardens.”

Conspirators in pajamas who exchange deep kisses for passwords.

A book, a book full of human touches, of shirts, a book without loneliness, with men and tools, a book is victory.

From sorrow to sorrow love crosses its islands and establishes roots that are watered by weeping.

My soul is an empty carousel at sunset.

I do not love you-except because I love you; I go from loving to not loving you, from waiting to not waiting for you my heart moves from the cold into the fire.

Absence is a house so vast that inside you will pass through its walls and hang pictures on the air.

I like on the table, when we’re speaking, the light of a bottle of intelligent wine.

Do tears not yet spilled wait in small lakes?

Love is a war of lightning, and two bodies ruined by a single sweetness.

By night, Love, tie your heart to mine, and the two together in their sleep will defeat the darkness.

In the distance someone is singing.

Tie your heart at night to mine, love, and both will defeat the darkness like twin drums beating in the forest against the heavy wall of wet leaves.

What did the earth teach the trees? How to speak to the sky.

I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.

Love, what a long way, to arrive at a kiss.

As if you were on fire from within. The moon lives in the lining of your skin.

Death is a mighty mediator. There all the flames of rage are extinguished, hatred is appeased, and angelic pity, like a weeping sister, bends with gentle and close embrace over the funeral urn.

Artists die twice. First creatively. Then physically. The second one is the easiest.

Between holding on and letting go october discerns october knows, that life lurks between the clouds of death and death breathes with every rebirth.

Rock stars come and go. Musicians play until they die.

The dead have need of fairy tales too.

Death is just where your suit falls off and now you’re in your other suit. You can’t see it on this level, but it’s all right. Don’t worry.

She might have liked to try to strangle him with those slender fingers of hers, but she wanted to make a job of it and this great patience with which she waited for her claws to grow was in itself a form of enjoyment.

Whoever lives among many evils just as I, how can dying not be a source of gain?