I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.

Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.

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

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

Here I am on the shore of Brittany. Let the cities light up in the evening. My day is done. I am leaving Europe. The sea air will burn my lungs. Lost climates will tan me. I will swim, trample the grass, hung, and smoke especially. I will drink alcohol as strong as boiling metal--just as my dear ancestors did around their fires.

And from then on, I bathed in the Poem of the Sea, star-infused, and opalescent, devouring green azures

My wisdom is as spurned as chaos. What is my nothingness, compared to the amazement that awaits you?