And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.

A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

What am I doing here?

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.

To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?

It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.