Todas as Frases

I am death. Death takes place in my very being—how can I explain to you? It’s a sensual death.

I am implicit. And when I make myself explicit I lose the humid intimacy.

I am obscure to myself.

I am only limited by my identity.

I am piecemeal. My story is living.

I am this very second forever in the now.

I am word and also its echo.

I am. This is all that comes to me from life. But what am I? the answer is just: what am I.

I deepen the words as if I were painting, more than an object, its shadow.

I don’t think just as the diamond doesn’t think. I shine wholly limpid. I have neither hunger nor thirst: I am.

I don’t want to have the terrible limitation of those who live merely from what can make sense. Not I: I want an invented truth.

I have the strange impression that I don’t belong to the human species.

I incarnate myself in the voluptuous and unintelligible phrases that tangle up beyond the words.

I know what I am doing here: I am telling of the instants that drip and are thick with blood.

I let myself happen.

I lose the identity of the world inside myself and exist without guarantees.

I love objects to the degree that they do not love me.

I may not have meaning but it is the same lack of meaning that the pulsing vein has.

I must speak because speaking saves. But I have no word to say.

I need secrets in order to live.