For Every Language That Becomes Extinct, An

Distraction Is Our Habitual State. Not The Distraction Of The Person Who Withdraws From The World In Order To Shut Himself Up In The Secret And Ever-changing Land Of His Fantasy, But The Distraction Of The Person Who Is Always Outside Himself, Lost In The Trivial, Senseless, Turmoil Of Everyday Life.

Poetry Is Not Truth, It Is The Resurrection Of Presences.

Light Is Time Thinking About Itself.

If We Are A Metaphor Of The Universe, The Human Couple Is The Metaphor Par Excellence, The Point Of Intersection Of All Forces And The Seed Of All Forms. The Couple Is Time Recaptured, The Return To The Time Before Time.

Beyond Myself, Somewhere, I Wait For My Arrival.