What I love is also my solitude. No one approaches. For years now, I have spent my hours in the company of some large, half-faded frescoes, old images but still fresh from the lips of those who embraced them, women of silence and the short tunic who guard the box with the diamonds of the ocean.

No one approaches. If I didn't have something very strong and innocent at the same time to sustain me, like the mints and lemon balm that thrive on my balcony, I would have died of hunger. I am so far from things, yet so close to their hidden heartbeat.

(. . .) [Excerpt from a publisher's or edition presentation text]