Every religion lies. Every moral precept is a delusion. Even the stars are a mirage. The truth is darkness, and the only thing that matters is making a statement before one enters it. Cutting the skin of the world and leaving a scar. That’s all history is, after all: scar tissue.
I will love the light for it shows me the way, yet I will endure the darkness because it shows me the stars.
With which stars do they go on speaking, the rivers that never reach the sea?[Con qué estrellas siguen hablando los ríos que no desembocan?]
To any who know the star field well from one certain reference point, stars are as individual as people. Jump ten parsecs, however, and not even your own sun is recognizable.
The real stars of society are tired of appearing there. He who is curious to gaze at them must often migrate to another hemisphere, where they are more or less alone.[Les étoiles véritables du monde sont fatiguées d’y paraître. Celui qui est curieux de les apercevoir doit souvent émigrer dans un autre hémisphère, où elles sont à peu près seules.]