Air Is The Very Substance

Childhood Lasts All Through Life.

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.

The Reverie Would Not Last If It Were Not Nourished By The Images Of The Sweetness Of Living, By The Illusions Of Happiness.

Our House Is Our Corner Of The World.

Man Is A Creation Of Desire, Not A Creation Of Need.