The Poet Makes Himself A Seer Through

Idle Youth, Enslaved To Everything; By Being Too Sensitive I Have Wasted My Life.

I'm Now Making Myself As Scummy As I Can. Why? I Want To Be A Poet, And I'm Working At Turning Myself Into A Seer. You Won't Understand Any Of This, And I'm Almost Incapable Of Explaining It To You. The Idea Is To Reach The Unknown By The Derangement Of All The Senses. It Involves Enormous Suffering, But One Must Be Strong And Be A Born Poet. It's Really Not My Fault.

The Sun, The Hearth Of Affection And Life, Pours Burning Love On The Delighted Earth.

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.

I Believe That I Am In Hell, Therefore I Am There.