يصبح الشاعر رائياً بفعل تشويش طويل، واسع ومدروس لجميع الحواس. ينبغي أن يعرف جميع أشكال الحب والمعاناة والجنون؛ أن يبحث بنفسه عن جميع السّموم، ويستنفدها… - Arthur Rimbaud

Love...no such thing.

Whatever it is that binds families and married couples together, that's not love. That's stupidity or selfishness or fear. Love doesn't exist.

Self interest exists, attachment based on personal gain exists, complacency exists. But not love. Love has to be reinvented, that’s certain.

All day long he was docile, intelligent, good, Though sometimes changing to a darker mood. He seemed hypocritical, could tell better lies, in the dark he saw dots of colors behind closed eyes, clenched fists, put his tongue out at his elder brother.

A thousand Dreams within me softly burn:
From time to time my heart is like some oak
Whose blood runs golden where a branch is torn.