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

A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?

What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?

But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

And again: No more gods! no more gods! Man is King, Man is God! - But the great Faith is Love!

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

Unhappiness was my god.