The orchestra whirls me wider than Uranus flies, It wrenches such ardors from me I did not know I possess'd them
I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.
Day by day and night by night we were together - all else has long been forgotten by me.
I and this mystery, here we stand.
A woman waits for me, she contains all, nothing lacking.
It is a beautiful truth that all men contain something of the artist in them. And perhaps it is the case that the greatest artists live and die, the world and themselves alike ignorant what they possess.