Je me suis baigné dans le Poème De la Mer... Dévorant les azurs verts. - Arthur Rimbaud

In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those whom I met did not see me.

- Bad Blood

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!

The same bourgeois magic everywhere the mail train sets you down.