Some random excerpts from Voices, by Antonio Porchia (trans. W.S. Merwin):
Before I travelled my road I was my road.
Man goes nowhere. Everything comes to man, like tomorrow.
Not believing has a sickness which is believing a little.
Nothing that is complete breathes.
He who does not fill his world with phantoms remains alone.
He who tells the truth says almost nothing.
We become aware of the void as we fill it.
Following straight lines shortens distances, and also life.
A child shows his toy, a man hides his.
I love you as you are, but do not tell me how that is.
When I die, I will not see myself die, for the first time.
I know what I have given you. I do not know what you have received.
Everything is a little bit of darkness, even the light.