Me mataron los murmullos.

No me ayudaste ni siquiera con esta esperanza.

Her eyelashes lay still; her heart was still.

That town sits on the coals of the earth, at the very mouth of hell. They say that when people from there go to hell, they come back for a blanket.

This town is filled with echoes. It’s like they were trapped behind the walls, or beneath the cobblestones. When you walk you feel like someone’s behind you, stepping in your footsteps.

La muerte no se reparte como si fuera un bien.

And though there were no children playing, no doves, no blue-shadowed roof tiles, I felt that the town was alive. And that if I heard only silence, it was because I was not accustomed to silence – maybe because my head was still filled with sounds and voices.

Nothing can last forever. There isn’t any memory, no matter how intense, that doesn’t fade out at last.

No one knows better than I do how far heaven is, but I also know all the shortcuts. The secret is to die, when you want to, and not when He proposes. Or else to force Him to take you before your time.

Every author that creates is a liar;literature is a lie,but from that lie, a recreation of reality is born. Therefore, recreating reality is one of the fundaments of creation.