Everything That Is Not Me Is Incomprehensible.

Your Imagination, My Dear Fellow, Is Worth More Than You Imagine.

Language Was Not Given To Man: He Seized It.

Your Heart Like A Hawk-mouth In The Sun, Your Heart Like A Ship On An Atoll, Your Heart Like A Compass Needle Driven Mad By A Little Piece Of Lead, Like Washing Drying In The Wind, Like A Whining Of Horses, Like Seed Thrown To The Birds, Like An Evening Paper One Has Finished Reading! Your Heart Is A Charade That The Whole World Has Guessed.

There Are Strange Flowers Of Reason To Match Each Error Of The Senses.

That You Are Not Already Golden Word In Our Streets Already Memories Your Love Fades Already Whether You Are No Longer To Have Perished.