It's Raining My Soul, It's Raining, But

Artists Are, Above All, Men Who Want To Become Inhuman.

One Day/ One Day I Waited For Myself/ I Said To Myself Guillaume It's Time You Came/ So I Could Know Just Who I Am/ I Who Know Others.

Without Poets, Without Artists... Everything Would Fall Apart Into Chaos. There Would Be No More Seasons, No More Civilizations, No More Thought, No More Humanity, No More Life Even; And Impotent Darkness Would Reign Forever. Poets And Artists Together Determine The Features Of Their Age, And The Future Meekly Conforms To Their Edit.

I Love Men, Not For What Unites Them, But For What Divides Them, And I Want To Know Most Of All What Gnaws At Their Hearts.

Joy Came Always After Pain.