O seasons, O castles, What soul is without flaws? All its lore is known to me, Felicity, it enchants us all.

Stronger than alcohol, vaster than poetry, Ferment the freckled red bitterness of love!

Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? - Through whose blood am I to wade ?

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn

What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?

Faith assuages, guides, restores.

I'm now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I'm working at turning myself into a seer. You won't understand any of this, and I'm almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It's really not my fault.