Impresión

Me dijo loca y no fue un insulto…

I’d woken up early, and I took a long time getting ready to exist.

Viviana llora. Viviana oyó torbellinos de peces elevarse por el aire disputándose los bocados de una despedida trunca, de un rezo no oído, de un amor no dicho.

You think you are possessing me – / But I’ve got my teeth in you.

​By the end of a week she was thinking constantly about where her body stopped and where the air began, about the exact point in space and time that was the difference between [herself] and other.

Si pudiera vivir nuevamente mi vida, en la próxima trataría de cometer más errores. No intentaría ser tan perfecto, me relajaría más. Sería más tonto de lo que he sido, de hecho tomaría muy pocas cosas con seriedad. Sería menos higiénico. Correría más riesgos, haría más viajes, contemplaría más atardeceres, subiría más montañas, nadaría más ríos. Iría a más lugares adonde nunca he ido, comería más helados y menos habas, tendría más problemas reales y menos imaginarios

I would like to write you so simply, so simply, so simply. Without having anything ever catch the eye, excepting yours alone, … so that above all the language remains self-evidently secret, as if it were being invented at every step, and as if it were burning immediately

I would like to be the air that inhabits you for a moment only. I would like to be that unnoticed & that necessary.

A beautiful hazard: to go and keep going.

The trouble is that we have a bad habit, encouraged by pedants and sophisticates, of considering happiness as something rather stupid. Only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. This is the treason of the artist; a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.