It is in front of the the paper that the artist creates himself.
O naked flower of my lips, you lie! I await a thing unknown or perhaps, unaware of the mystery and your cries you give, O lips, the supreme tortured moans of a childhood groping among its reveries to sort out finally its cold precious stones.
All thoughts emit a throw of dice
Every soul is a melody which needs renewing.
Dreams have as much influences as actions.
The poetic act consists of suddenly seeing that an idea splits up into a number of equal motifs and of grouping them; they rhyme.