Every object in the world, loved for its own sake, has a right to its own nothingness. Every being pours out being, a little of its being, the shadow… - Gaston Bachelard

I am a dreamer of words, of written words. I think I am reading; a word stops me. I leave the page. The syllables of the word begin to move around. Stressed accents begin to invert. The word abandons its meaning like an overload which is too heavy and prevents dreaming. Then words take on other meanings as if they had the right to be young. And the words wander away, looking in the nooks and crannies of vocabulary for new company, bad company.

There is no original truth, only original error.

It is better to live in a state of impermanence than in one of finality.