I don’t know about birds nor do I know the history of fire. But I believe that my solitude should have wings.

But, who is Death? A figure that harrows and wastes wherever and however it pleases. This is also a possible description of the Countess Bathory. Nev….

An unchangeable colour rules over the melancholic: his dwelling is a space the colour of mourning. Nothing happens in it. No one intrudes. It is a ba….

Because no one has more thirst for earth, for blood, and for ferocious sexuality than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrors.

You've built your homeyou've fledged your birdsyou've beaten the windwith your bonesyou've finished alonewhat no one began.