Man is able to do what he is unable to imagine. His head trails a wake through the galaxy of the absurd.

How did writing come to me? Like bird’s down on my windowpane, in winter. Just then there rose in the heart a struggle of firebrands, which has, still now, not ended.

Each act is virgin, even the repeated ones.

What comes into the world to disturb nothing merits neither attention nor patience

How can we live without the unknown before us?