You Don't Make A Poem With Ideas,

Everything In The World Exists In Order To End Up As A Book.

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!

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.

It Is In Front Of The The Paper That The Artist Creates Himself.

A Throw Of The Dice Will Never Abolish Chance.