Facts and particulars annoy me.

My truest life is unrecognizable, extremely interior and there is not a single word that defines it.

Me acostumbro pero no me amanso.

I don’t miss it, because I have my childhood more now than when it was happening...

The courage to be something other than what one is, to give birth to oneself, and to leave one’s former body on the ground. And without having answered to anyone about whether it was worthwhile.

Not knowing yourself is inevitable, and not knowing yourself demands courage.

Death is an encounter with oneself.

But the most important word in the language has but two letters: is. Is. I am at its core. I still am. I am at the living and soft centre. Still. It sparkles and is elastic.

As for music, where does it go? The only concrete thing in music is the instrument.

I’m restless and harsh and despairing. Although I do have love inside me. I just don’t know how to use love. Sometimes it tears at my flesh, like barbs. If I can hold so much love within me, and nevertheless continue to be uneasy, it’s because I need God to come. Come, before it’s too late. I’m in danger, as is everyone who’s alive.