True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world. - Arthur Rimbaud

The poet, therefore, is truly the thief of fire.
He is responsible for humanity, for animals even; he will have to make sure his visions can be smelled, fondled, listened to; if what he brings back from beyond has form, he gives it form; if it has none, he gives it none. A language must be found…of the soul, for the soul and will include everything: perfumes, sounds colors, thought grappling with thought

A man who wants to mutilate himself is certainly damned, isn't he?

It is found again.
What? Eternity.
It is the sea
Gone with the sun.