Winter awakens childhood inside every being, dressing it in its purity as if for a soul rooting ritual.

The superiority of man as a being lies in his mind's power to improve and protect the existential environment, in the soul and mind that can make it so that life is poetry and not a dump.

Try to remember me when the cold frosty winter will set veils of snowflakes over my old hair. I will remember you too.

I'm awake, but my soul is still sleeping in your heart.

Behind every soul there is at least one other soul, within each heart a bigger heart, like a day or like a night that unfolds from itself in turn, more alive, more hopeful...

It is not possible to mix soul and clay and not get oblivion.