Intensity is what is born when there is nothing left to save, but you still kneel tired and kiss the floor as if it were the mouth of someone who never loved you.

It’s love that keeps burning after the world went out.

It’s waking up every morning knowing that everything is a lie, and yet choosing you again, with the same tenderness with which a suicide chooses the most beautiful rope.

The intensity is to write your name on the wall of a room that tomorrow they are going to knock down, and sign it with blood because the ink seems too cold for so much useless heat.

It is the last cigarette shared before the end of the universe, the souls reflecting in two reflected pupils who already know that there will be no tomorrow, and yet they look at each other as those who trust that they can do everything.

Intensity is the romanticism of the condemned: because deep down, deep down, it is the only thing we have left before nothing devours us in a sigh.