sol vermelho é bonito de se ver lua nova no alto, que beleza

we were inside the train car when i started to cry. you were crying too, smiling and crying in a way that made me even more hysterical. you said i could have anything i wanted, but i just couldn't say it out loud.

only pain is intellectual, only evil interesting. this is the treason of the artist: a refusal to admit the banality of evil and the terrible boredom of pain.

he became precisely the person everyone wanted him to be, because a young boy carrying a huge secret soon learns that sometimes the best place to hide is where everyone can see you.

i’m writing in a dark room. maybe the body of the poem is a child. maybe the body's finding itself, like it should have as a child. are you listening? maybe there's no redeeming or justifying what's been done to the poem's body, now or as a child.

you are so young, so before all beginning, and i would beg you, dear sir, as best i can to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books penned in a language most foreign to you.

the only thing worse than a boy who hates you: a boy who loves you.