I am not the first adam who dreams vainly not to die all, and save some moment of paradise to the irrevocable census of oblivion.
But the strength of life has taught me that nothing is accumulated in the letter that is not ash from burned ships, that the traces only remain on the plants of the passer-by, which I must pass by taking me the essence: the glare of the sun, thousand times millennial and yet every new day.
The moments when it was given to me to appreciate the gift and mystery of existing, the light hour in the warm contact of another skin, the awareness of being an unrepeatable form: docile mud in the hand of time, the shedding of the water in the throat of my thirst or on the pillow of my cry ...
I will die completely, like this lonely moment, which is no longer.
