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.
Je est un autre. (I is someone else).
I wrote silences; nights; I recorded the unnameable.
Life is the farce which everyone has to perform.
Genius is the recovery of childhood at will.
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.