Ah what's asleep in this large city night is the shadow of a single blue cat the shadow of a cat that speaks of the sad history of mankind the blue s… - Sakutarō Hagiwara

[T]he octopus did not die. Even after he disappeared, he still was eternally alive there. In the antiquated, empty, forgotten water tank of the aquarium. Eternally—most likely through many centuries—an animal with a certain horrible deficiency and dissatisfaction was alive, invisible to the human eye.

Poetry is the intellect's product of one second. A certain type of sentiment that one ordinarily has touches something like electricity and for the first time discovers a rhythm. This electricity is, for the poet, a miracle. Poetry is not something anticipated and made.

Of the lukewarm unpleasantness of the sensation of a
man at such a moment a disastrous crime is born. A
heart afraid of crime is the forerunner of a heart that
gives birth to a crime.