،درد را دوسـت نـدارم
،هـرگز هـم آن را دوســت نـخـواهـم داشـت
....ولی باید اذعـان کـنـم که آمـوزگارِ خـوبی اســت

A painter is someone who wipes the windowpane between the world and us with light, with a rag made of light, soaked in silence.

Distance brings sweetness. Absence tames what is near.

A few stars were approaching and in their brightness I glimpsed a fragment of your vanished soul – cheerful and frivolous, unforgettable.

What love is it, then, that has no need of words to call us? In whose image are we made, to take such delight in a simple image, a square of light on a dark wall?

We are like these children, holding a marble in their left hand and not letting it go until they are sure that the swap is in their right hand: we would like to have a new life but without losing the former life. We refuse the moment of passage, the moment of the empty hand.