May The Devil Himself Splatter You With

Compromise Yourself. Obscure Your Own Trail.

I'm Not Willing Just To Be Tolerated. That Wounds My Love Of Love And Of Liberty.

Poets Don't Draw. They Unravel Their Handwriting And Then Tie It Up Again, But Differently.

Since These Mysteries Exceed My Grasp, I Shall Pretend To Have Organized Them.

When We Awake It Is The Animal, The Plant, That Thinks In Us. Primitive Thought Without The Least Disguise. We See A Terrible Universe, Because We See Clearly. A Little Later, Intelligence Introduces Its Impeding Contrivances. It Brings The Little Toys Which Man Invents In Order To Hide The Void. It Is Then That We Think We Are Seeing Clearly. We Attribute Our Uneasiness To The Miasmas Of The Brain As It Passes From Dream To Reality.