i cultivated love intellectually, deaf up to the present moment. i flow out of my spirit constantly into eternal molds without hope.

certain wandering comments have emanated from my hands without planning.

i begin the lines and arabesques, in order simply to bleach my vain heart of egotism, suffocated completely.
--

the summer is cool. the throat has been thirsty, and the range of vision is twisted.

the author who creates this hydropic effect has the keyboard that has always consisted of consecutive i's.

freedom begins being about the freedom to go away.
--

the dust is an exudation of spontaneousness.

the elegance of it is an impulse which writes these pages; the empty come outside. perhaps there is a person who is believed. there is no useful purpose.

we dissemble, form our features by instinct.