Everything can be killed except nostalgia for the kingdom, we carry it in the color of our eyes, in every love affair, in everything that deeply torments and unties and tricks.
Only by living absurdly is it possible to break out of this infinite absurdity.
Only in dreams, in poetry, in play do we sometimes arrive at what we were before we were this thing that, who knows, we are.
And do you accept the idea that there is no explanation?
Why have we had to invent Eden, to live submerged in the nostalgia of a lost paradise, to make up utopias, propose a future for ourselves?
What good is a writer if he can't destroy literature? And us... what good are we if we don't help as much as we can in that destruction?
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