Sometimes, I feel able to write lines about my life and about how I do feel everyday in such a huge book, but sometimes I either prefer to write one word that describe it or just to say nothing at all.

Everything hurts until you become good at hurting everything around too.

People are just so mean for no reason.

For a few seconds Maria did not move, or even breathe, apparently. Then she gave a sorrowful gulp and, like all little girls, even those who speak to fantastical wild boars and mercurial horses, she collapsed in desperate sobs, of the kind that come so easily to a twelve-year-old, and so hard to a person of forty.

The deeper that sorrow carves into your being,
the more joy you can contain.
Is not the cup that holds your wine the very cup that was burned in the potters oven?
And is not the lute that soothes your spirits the very wood that was hollowed with knives?

He didn't feel any regret or any sorrow. It was just like he was cutting the pig meat at a meat market. He's a butcher, a human beings butcher.