Dejan Stojanovic

There are those who speak and those who dream.

The purpose of life is life.

If birth is a manifestation of life, death is another.

Life into death_ Life__ other shape, No rupture, Only crossing.

Every thought about death takes a moment of life away.

Good is not always good.

When the star dies, Its eye closes; tired of watching, It flies back to its first bright dream.

A poem is its own name and cover.

Names sound nice because no one peeks behind the cover to see the sad face of a poem crying for meaning, while the name of the creator proudly smiles from the title.

There are anonymous poems and poets without poems.

They forget that love is not a science but an inherent state of mind; they forget that sex is practiced by animals without textbooks and that it is not such a secret that requires a complete science, courses and special training. And so impotent, with artificial stars on the ceilings of their rooms, they become the main teachers on the way to the stars.

A well paid word deceives them. And what kind of a word is a word that has a price, high or low, which is adjusted to the price of fame, and how, long ago, when it was little appreciated, was it more valuable than it is today with a big price?

Everything passes through the eyes of top bureaucrats who closely watch to ensure that no intruder can enter their ranks and disrupt the order and arrangement of values in which everything is predetermined and where everyone knows their place, everyone__ potential, talent and position in history.

Hope without love is hopeless.

The length of novels, poems and stories, is measured by the number of missing words; a thousand pages become one, one becomes a thousand.

Knowing how to dream is more important than the story, because the story tells itself.

An unrewarded value is more valuable than a reward with no value.

Through memory to knowledge on the way to stars that are stepping down to the stuffy rooms of modern bureaucrats, illuminating their ceilings, their horizons where everything is easily resolved by the piles of paper and recipes for how to live, create, run, eat, breathe, learn how to love, how to make love, how to sleep, how to dream, how happiness is achieved under the artificial stars of the new sky that emerged from the bureaucratic rooms of aspiring and impotent minds, unable to love, even though they had all their life to learn what they preach.