We Latins Are Known For Jabbering On.

We Are What We Do, Especially What We Do To Change What We Are.

And One Fine Day The Goddess Of The Wind Kisses The Foot Of Man, That Mistreated, Scorned Foot, And From That Kiss The Soccer Idol Is Born. He Is Born In A Straw Crib In A Tin-roofed Shack And He Enters The World Clinging To A Ball.

I Would Recognise Myself In Each Of His Translations And He Would Feel Betrayed And Annoyed Whenever I Didn't Write Something The Way He Would Have. A Part Of Me Died With Him, A Part Of Him Lives With Me.

We Live In A World That Treats The Dead Better Than The Living. We, The Living Are Askers Of Questions And Givers Of Answers, And We Have Other Grave Defects Unpardonable By A System That Believes Death, Like Money, Improves People.

Each Person Shines With His Or Her Own Light. No Two Flames Are Alike. There Are Big Flames And Little Flames, Flames Of Every Color. Some People’s Flames Are So Still They Don’t Even Flicker In The Wind, While Others Have Wild Flames That Fill The Air With Sparks. Some Foolish Flames Neither Burn Nor Shed Light, But Others Blaze With Life So Fiercely That You Can’t Look At Them Without Blinking, And If You Approach You Shine In The Fire.