We Suffer From An Incurable Malady: Hope.

If You Live, Live Free Or Die Like The Trees, Standing Up.

We Are Captives, Even If Our Wheat Grows Over The Fences/ And Swallows Rise From Our Broken Chains./ We Are Captives Of What We Love, What We Desire, And What We Are.

I Love Women Whose Hidden Desires Make Horses Put An End To Their Lives At The Threshold

And You Became Like Coffee, In The Deliciousness, And The Bitterness, And The Addiction.

My Love, I Fear The Silence Of Your Hands.