Some things I recall, they just light up right in front of my eyes, and other things have been crumbled away and scattered, and only dust and fine rain remain in my memory.
If I write what I feel, it’s to reduce the fever of feeling. What I confess is unimportant because, everything is unimportant.
These people were born in dreams, they emerged from the dreams and settled in the most solid manner possible in my monk’s cell.
Indeed, every great image has an unfathomable oneiric depth to which the personal past adds special colour.