Be A Mere Assistant To

The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go There To Identify Your Friends.

The Poet, By Composing Poems, Uses A Language That Is Neither Dead Nor Living, That Few People Speak, And Few People Understand We Are The Servants Of An Unknown Force That Lives Within Us, Manipulates Us, And Dictates This Language To Us.

The Poet Is A Liar Who Always Speaks The Truth.

Stupidity Is Always Astounding, No Matter How Often One Encounters It.

Beauty Makes One Lose One's Head. Poetry Is Born Of This Decapitation