[b]Arthur Rimbaud
Unhappiness was my god.[/b]
We all end up worshipping something, right?
I’m now making myself as scummy as I can. Why? I want to be a poet, and I’m working at turning myself into a seer. You won’t understand any of this, and I’m almost incapable of explaining it to you. The idea is to reach the unknown by the derangement of all the senses. It involves enormous suffering, but one must be strong and be a born poet. It’s really not my fault.
Let’s just say that, fortunately, I never even came close.
My wisdom is as spurned as chaos.
I hear that!
I could never throw Love out of the window.
I just show it the door.
It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.
Trust me, he thought: It ends that way too. But at least it does end.
What is my nothingness to the stupor that awaits you?
Unless of course it misses you completely.