Everyone Has His Vanity, And

We Worship Perfection Because We Can't Have It; If We Had It, We Would Reject It. Perfection Is Inhuman, Because Humanity Is Imperfect.

We Are Two Abysses - A Well Staring At The Sky.

Nobody Appropriates Novelties As Readily As The Portuguese.

The Poet Is A Pretender. / He Pretends So Completely, / That He Even Pretends That It Is Pain / The Pain He Really Feels.

All Beginnings Are Involuntary.