… not much.

We love life like death loves us. Eventually, it’s a question of elective affinity.

It’s a cold, windy, lonely night, and suddenly a smooth, ruggedy voice whispers in your ear: Pack your memories and leave. Vaya con Dios. Oh, the irony.

Hope is a gruesome incubus.

Once one achieves the impossible, the possible becomes meaningless.

Remorse is what remains after nothing remains.

So sad a pen without ink, a station without a train, a world without a future.

There is no absolute darkness but in the soul of an angel.

I have no words to describe my silences.