One Should Read Borges More.

Nothing Happened Today. And If Anything Did, I’d Rather Not Talk About It, Because I Didn’t Understand It.

The Pain, Or The Memory Of Pain, That Here Was Literally Sucked Away By Something Nameless Until Only A Void Was Left. The Knowledge That This Question Was Possible: Pain That Turns Finally Into Emptiness. The Knowledge That The Same Equation Applied To Everything, More Or Less.

When I Was Done Traveling, I Returned Convinced Of One Thing: We're Nothing.

In Some Lost Fold Of The Past, We Wanted To Be Lions And We're No More Than Castrated Cats

Literature Is A Vast Forest And The Masterpieces Are The Lakes, The Towering Trees Or Strange Trees, The Lovely, Eloquent Flowers, The Hidden Caves, But A Forest Is Also Made Up Of Ordinary Trees, Patches Of Grass, Puddles, Clinging Vines, Mushrooms, And Little Wildflowers.