I shed more tears than God could ever have required.

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Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn

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Je est un autre.

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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

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I is another.

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True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

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In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those whom I met did not see me.

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I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

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