I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.

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

All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn: From time to time my heart is like some oak Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.

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

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

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.