Only thoughts that are randomly born die. The other thoughts we carry with us without knowing them. They have abandoned themselves to forgetfulness so that they can be with us all the time.

Detachment from the world as an attachment to the ego... Who can realize the detachment in which you are as far away from yourself as you are from the world?

To detach yourself elegantly from the world; to give contour and grace to sadness; a solitude in style; a walk that gives cadence to memories; stepping towards the intangible; with the breath in the trembling margins of things; the past reborn in the overflow of fragrances; the smell, through which we conquer time; the contour of the invisible things; the forms of the immaterial; to deepen yourself in the intangible; to touch the world airborne by smell; aerial dialogue and gliding dissolution; to bathe in your own reflecting fragmentation...

That fear which gives birth to thoughts, and the fear of thoughts...

All philosophers should end their days at Pythia's feet. There is only one philosophy, that of unique moments.

The fear of your own solitude, of its vast surface and its infinity... Remorse is the voice of solitude. And what does this whispering voice say? Everything in us that is not human anymore.

I don't understand how people can believe in God, even when I myself think of him everyday.

Time is heavy sometimes; imagine how heavy eternity must be.

Nostalgia, more than anything, gives us the shudder of our own imperfection.

To suffer is the great modality of taking the world seriously.