“She loved to walk down the street with a book under her arm. It had the same significance for her as an elegant cane for the dandy a century ago. It differentiated her from others.”

--Milan Kundera, The Unbearable Lightness of Being

Making up the arrangement. . .

Somebody must ask, why waste time thinking on how to sort out this puzzle, when all the pieces have the same straight edge?

Pain. . .

I'd call it a parasite. Once it gets in, it stays; it lives with you, it grows in you, and it eats you little by little by little...

The infinity onion

Eyes can't see a thing, filled with the mist from peeling this onion; the never ending one!

The hunter

This hunter comes every once in a while, looking for the old prey; just to kill it the same way he did before. And he goes away, only to come back again. . .

This too, shall pass...

Every night when I lie down on the cold sheets of the bed, relaxed, waiting for the sleep to come and take me away, I think to myself: if sleeping is a good part of my day, then why can't death be a good part of my life?

A day without sleep,

A Life without death,

One, a mare; the other, the sweetest of all dreams. . .