An artist creates
only in the presence of light...

The Bomb Has No Eyes
The predators do not see innocence...

War begins
the moment...

Why do we trust
the tyranny of sizes...

The breeze whispered to me:
see...

Why is loneliness
so crowded...

Oh yes,
it’s always a good pitch that does it...

I don’t know
why I am nobody...

Parallels,
creator and createe...

The hours—
they are pilgrims of solitude...

A star burns, flickers
within the fractures of these faces...

If loneliness were a flower,
it would be the most blossomed bloom in the...