I am the soul in limbo.
It was in the black mirror of anarchism that surrealism first recognised itself.
The simplest act of surrealism is to walk out into the street, gun in hand, and shoot at random.
The clouds were disappearing rapidly, leaving the stars to die. The night dried up.
What is admirable about the fantastic is that there is no longer anything fantastic: there is only the real.
Who am I? If this once I were to rely on a proverb, then perhaps everything would amount to knowing whom I 'haunt.'