To Define Is To Kill. To Suggest

The World Exists To End Up In A Book.

All Thoughts Emit A Throw Of Dice

You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas, But With Words.

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.

In Reading, A Lonely Quiet Concert Is Given To Our Minds; All Our Mental Faculties Will Be Present In This Symphonic Exaltation.