The World Was Made In Order To

It Is The Job Of Poetry To Clean Up Our Word-clogged Reality By Creating Silences Around Things.

Yes, I Know, We Are Merely Empty Forms Of Matter, But We Are Indeed Sublime In Having Invented God And Our Soul. So Sublime, My Friend, That I Want To Gaze Upon Matter, Fully Conscious That It Exists, And Yet Launching Itself Madly Into Dream, Despite Its Knowledge That Dream Has No Existence, Extolling The Soul And All The Divine Impressions Of That Kind Which Have Collected Within Us From The Beginning Of Time And Proclaiming, In The Face Of The Void Which Is Truth, These Glorious Lies!

The Poetic Act Consists Of Suddenly Seeing That An Idea Splits Up Into A Number Of Equal Motifs And Of Grouping Them; They Rhyme.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.

The Pure Work Implies The Disappearance Of The Poet As Speaker, Who Hands Over To The Words.