Twenty fingers, a handful of signs, a thousand stories.

Night is made for deceits: not even the first star is a star.

For the crab, it's the world the one that slides sideways.

Travelers never return: whoever travel changes.

Beauty isn't without eyes rendering it.

Sometimes it's not about changing fields but discourses: during droughts, the umbrella peddler might cry up parasols.

It's very easy to change the world. I just did it: this text did not exist before and now it does.

When a really serious problem is affecting me, I jump to conceal the gravity.

Words are strokes, too.

I'll believe in life after death.

As time goes by, our body belongs to us less and less. Gradually, we are giving it up to science.

In the road things move at different speeds. As in life, what is closer seems to go away faster.

There is no disaster that occurs outside the body.

The world doesn't end for the dead, but for whom cries for them from this side.

Time, that solvent of love.

Body and mind degrade. Only fears grow.

That life continues during sleep is a good metaphor for what will happen after the end.

The one who waits is here and there.

Nobody is born before their time is up, either.

Life is a matrioska with no center.

Luck abandoned us, those of us who write of luck abandoning us.

Loneliness doesn't takes vacations.

Before the mirror, I wonder if my reflection, who rises his right hand when I rise my left, is happy.

Forgotten dreams are letters that never left their envelopes.

Truth is in the (small print of) dreams.

Only insomniacs can appreciate nightmares.

We think that we are the front of the cards, but we are just the backs.

Happiness comes in two versions: hardcover and paperback.

The owl's reason: to see the four sides of the night.

He's not humble, he's proud of his failures.

He arrogantly matched his fate with the chameleon's, who's always feeling that he's copulating with himself.

We're made from fragments: genetic material, time, stories. We're parts without a whole.

My memory fails: I remember you.

We plan as immortals, but fear refutes us.

I wash my guilts and dry them in the sun, to wear them again.

When I look to me in the mirror, do I look at the mirror?

I have the antidote but I lack the poison.

Doubt is the key, certainty the padlock.

Inspiration is cooked in sweat.

People who change their opinion with the wind, and spread their sails every time.

Guilt is a candy and my soul, insulin.

Ego is nourished by problems.

I believe in intimacy. Labels belong to the others.

Error, the engine of humanity.

The worst enemy is the one who doesn't exist.

I prefer full lies than half truths: I never know which half to believe.

Do I seem half-full for the glass that watches me from that cupboard, half-empty?

Loneliness is a drug, and it's hard.

I'm a soul trapped in an agnostic's body.

The nocturnal butterfly, with no colors to amaze itself, remembers its squirming past.

Heart is a muscle. Life, the gym.

The victory horse comes from a carousel.

Modesty is the art of showing off in disguise.

Forgiveness is vertical, as is contempt. Understanding is horizontal, as is love.

I know that as long as bars exist, I will not be free, even if I'm outside.

It's not enough to read between lines anymore: now we must think between ideas.

In certain darknesses, my shadow doesn't disappears: it merges.

I don't write as I talk, but as I breathe.

To exit is a different way to enter.

I don't believe in shyness but in lack of trust.

He has only one flaw: he's perfect.

The easier question is the one that has no answer.

The Devil is God working overtime.

I don't write but think inside out.

The eyelides, those shutters of your soul.

It's a mutual cheat: my head tricks me and I let her do it.

I'm the sole author of my plagiarisms.

The good poet doesn't say, he shows.

I teleport myself (I sleep whenever I travel).

Ideas are finite because we are finite.

I eat carrots to see my incentives better.

We are a contained container.

Resentment, that anchor of the spirit.

If tolerance is respect, I buy. If tolerance is endurance, I sell.

I write for the ghosts who dream about me, although I know that they can't read.

In search of a virtual tin can opener for an invisible armor suit.

My shyness melts in your mouth.

You are a magnet. My iron will plays against me.

I prefer the criticism that wounds my chest and not the one that grazes my back.

If watered with tears, solitude germinates by the warmth of the moon.

My painkiller comes in a paper container in doses of one chapter every eight hours.

It's an oil spill in a sea of knowledge.

I shout to you with my ears so your lips can really hear me.

Clothes, that billboard for the spirit.

Solitude is a country with no borders.

Android souls are ubiquitous.

The mental health and the healing mentality: the two sides of the same pill.

The opposite of love is not hate but indifference.

Tears could finish up but not the crying.

I'm the echo of the cry you'll supress when looking for me.

My call is to be an excuse, not a reason.

Hate is love with his clothes on.

Hugs as lifesavers for mainland shipwrecks.

Better to be a shepherd with no herd than without a wolf.

Smiles come from the body, guffaws from the soul.

The most artful blow is that which is given eye to eye.

Clothes hinder when it's about wrapping you up.

Skeptical and relativist, he moves forward spinning around.

A mob's noise causes blindness.

As the amputated limbs itch to emphasize their loss, so your absence hurts.

I'm not promiscuous: my heart is broken and each piece loves on its own.

Love as applied imagination.

The brave die, too but cowards never live on.

Better is the beauty when it's not apparent.

If two things are identical, there aren't two things.

The worst physical pain is the soul's.

Each blank page is a possible future.

In certain days, the line of the horizon is straighter.

Life is an accordion and love, the air that expands it.

I look for shapes in cloudless parts of the sky.

If you can't summarize your problem in two lines, it's not that serious.

Loneliness is a game for two.

To lie on until only truths remain to say.

All fears are reducible to one: solitude.

Be aware that poetry is always revolution. Note that revolutions usually fail.

The nose and the ears grow continually. Nevertheless, we gradually lose our senses of smell, hearing and shame.

There aren't mistakes but out of context accuracies.

I tend to be: a bohemian trapped in a bourgeois body, a lantern in the fog, a living oxymoron, a centipede.

The best farewell is to move forward.
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