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.

The Poet makes himself a seer through a long, vast and painstaking derangement of all the senses

I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am there.

I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.

I could never throw Love out of the window.

What am I doing here?

I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.