Melancholia is, I believe, a musical problem: a dissonance, a change in rhythm. While on the outside everything happens with the vertiginous rhythm of a cataract, on the inside is the exhausted adagio of drops...

An unchangeable colour rules over the melancholic: his dwelling is a space the colour of mourning. Nothing happens in it. No one intrudes. It is a bare stage where the inert I is assisted by...

mi rostro? un cero disimulado..

Me alimento de música y de agua negra. Soy tu niña calcinada por un sueño implacable.

Cierra las puertas de tu rostro para que no digan luego que aquella mujer enamorada fuiste tú.

La rebelión consiste en mirar una rosahasta pulverizarse los ojos.

Explicar con palabras de este mundo que partió de mí un barco llevándome.

But, who is Death? A figure that harrows and wastes wherever and however it pleases. This is also a possible description of the Countess Bathory. Never did anyone wish so hard not to grow old;...

Because no one has more thirst for earth, for blood, and for ferocious sexuality than the creatures who inhabit cold mirrors