Do not look for my heart any more; the beasts have eaten it. - Charles Baudelaire

What men call love is a very small, restricted, feeble thing compared with this ineffable orgy, this divine prostitution of the soul giving itself entire, all its poetry and all its charity, to the unexpected as it comes along, to the stranger as he passes.

Le génie n'est que l'enfance retrouvée à volonté, l'enfance douée maintenant, pour s'exprimer, d'organes virils et de l'esprit analytique qui lui permet d'ordonner la somme de matériaux involontairement amassée.

Scent, sound or sight, beneficent, malign – Who cares if you’re a blessing or a curse, So long as you bring light,