I Wrote Silences; Nights; I Recorded The

Your Memory And Your Senses Will Be Nourishment For Your Creativity.

Life Is The Farce Which Everyone Has To Perform.

The Poet Makes Himself A Voyant Through A Long, Immense Reasoned Deranging Of All His Senses. All The Forms Of Love, Of Suffering, Of Madness; He Tries To Find Himself, He Exhausts In Himself All The Poisons, To Keep Only Their Quintessences.

I'm Now Making Myself As Scummy As I Can. Why? I Want To Be A Poet, And I'm Working At Turning Myself Into A Seer. You Won't Understand Any Of This, And I'm Almost Incapable Of Explaining It To You. The Idea Is To Reach The Unknown By The Derangement Of All The Senses. It Involves Enormous Suffering, But One Must Be Strong And Be A Born Poet. It's Really Not My Fault.

...you Have To Pass An Exam, And The Jobs That You Get Are Either To Shine Shoes, Or To Herd Cows, Or To Tend Pigs. Thank God, I Don't Want Any Of That! Damn It! And Besides That They Smack You For A Reward; They Call You An Animal And It's Not True, A Little Kid, Etc.. Oh! Damn Damn Damn Damn Damn!