We are destined to be roots, trunks, branches, and wings. When flying is out of reach, we are two hands of dirt closer to infinity.

Hope – the wings that see through any darkness, any wall.

Every man carries inside the wilderness of infinity, as any grain of air, of sand, of water.

You can only touch infinity by achieving a heart of violins. You can not be in an enormous love more than the one that imagines that much horizon.

Life – a sort of a plate of real-imaginary from which we nibble together with the birds of light and darkness, with the poor and well-to-do of the world at grains of to be once rough (like sharp stones), other times more like the pulp of pomegranates and ripe figs; stairs I have to climb in myself and climb down... to sometimes walk along the roads of infinity, other times, how many, to stop before the first step, waiting for the path home...

The composer, like the painter, like the poet, like the bird, like the wind, like the flower, like the tiny insect, like the deer, like the wolf, like the water, picks chords from the soul of infinity and makes them vibrate through his own soul