I Went Out Under The Sky, Muse!

Your Memory And Your Senses Will Be Nourishment For Your Creativity.

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.

Misfortune Was My God.

The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through A Long, Vast And Painstaking Derangement Of All The Senses

But The Problem Is To Make The Soul Into A Monster