“Let us forget with generosity those who cannot love us.”

In this part of the story I am the one who dies, the only one, and I will die of love because I love you, because I love you, Love, in fire and in blood.

Joyful, joyful, joyful, as only dogs know how to be happy with only the autonomy of their shameless spirit.

I have never thought of my life as divided between poetry and politics.

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.

You hypnotize yourself with memories that were meant to be forgotten, then wonder why destiny never favors you.

To make the best use of your life, you must never forget two truths: First, compared with eternity, life is extremely brief. Second, earth is only a temporary residence. You won’t be here long, so don’t get too attached.

Never shall I forget those moments that murdered my God and my soul and turned my dreams to ashes.

I found my old diary tonight. A brokenness I had forgotten pen pressured so deep it punctured page. I ran my fingers over my words and there inside ridges black I found a little girl desperate for someone to save her, desperate for the very woman I have become.

Some things we forget. But many things we remember on the mental screen, which is the biggest screen of all.

Do ghosts get tired of haunting? Of chasing old flames in darkness, of walking through dreams casting shadows against walls, against hearts, do they feel themselves forgotten?

People are so into digital recording now they forgot how easy analog recording can be.

A lot of times when you keep it real with somebody, you can’t expect them to keep it real with you. In this industry people just want to be famous and they forget how to keep it real and they forget to give credit to the people who helped them get to where they at.