No One's Serious At Seventeen.

My Wisdom Is As Spurned As Chaos. What Is My Nothingness, Compared To The Amazement That Awaits You?

-but I've Just Noticed That My Mind Is Asleep.

But The Problem Is To Make The Soul Into A Monster

Is It In These Bottomless Nights That You Sleep In Exile?

The Poet Makes Himself A Voyant Through A Long, Immense Reasoned Deranging Of All His Senses. All The Forms Of Love, Of Suffering, Of Madness; He Tries To Find Himself, He Exhausts In Himself All The Poisons, To Keep Only Their Quintessences.