Unhappiness was my god.
Eternity. It is the sea mingled with the sun.
It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.
As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.
The poet makes himself a voyant through a long, immense reasoned deranging of all his senses. All the forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he tries to find himself, he exhausts in himself all the poisons, to keep only their quintessences.
And I am still alive-what though, my damnation is eternal. A man who deliberately mutilates himself is truly damned, is he not? I believe that I am in hell, therefore I am.