The World Exists To End

Every Soul Is A Melody Which Needs Renewing.

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

The Pure Work Implies The Disappearance Of The Poet As Speaker, Who Hands Over To The Words.

Yes, I Know, We Are Merely Empty Forms Of Matter, But We Are Indeed Sublime In Having Invented God And Our Soul. So Sublime, My Friend, That I Want To Gaze Upon Matter, Fully Conscious That It Exists, And Yet Launching Itself Madly Into Dream, Despite Its Knowledge That Dream Has No Existence, Extolling The Soul And All The Divine Impressions Of That Kind Which Have Collected Within Us From The Beginning Of Time And Proclaiming, In The Face Of The Void Which Is Truth, These Glorious Lies!

The Flesh Is Sad, Alas, And I Have Read All The Books.