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

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

Il faut être absolument moderne

I is another. If the brass wakes the trumpet, it’s not its fault. That’s obvious to me: I witness the unfolding of my own thought: I watch it, I hear it: I make a stroke with the bow: the symphony begins in the depths, or springs with a bound onto the stage.

If the old imbeciles hadn’t discovered only the false significance of Self, we wouldn’t have to now sweep away those millions of skeletons which have been piling up the products of their one-eyed intellect since time immemorial, and claiming themselves to be their authors!