“To whom shall I hire myself out? What beast should I adore? What holy image is attacked? What hearts shall I break? What lies shall I uphold? In what blood tread?”

True alchemy lies in this formula: ‘Your memory and your senses are but the nourishment of your creative impulse’.

It began as research. I wrote of silences, of nights, I scribbled the indescribable. I tied down the vertigo.

And from that time on I bathed in the Poem Of the Sea, star-infused and churned into milk, Devouring the green azures; where, entranced in pallid flotsam, A dreaming drowned man sometimes goes down.

What a life! True life is elsewhere. We are not in the world.

I understand, and not knowing how to express myself without pagan words, I’d rather remain silent.

Is it in these bottomless nights that you sleep in exile?

I shed more tears than God could ever have required.

I found I could extinguish all human hope from my soul.

The only unbearable thing is that nothing is unbearable.

As I descended into impassable rivers I no longer felt guided by the ferrymen.

I went out under the sky, Muse! and I was your vassal.

Whose hearts must I break? What lies must I maintain? – Through whose blood am I to wade ?

But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

I may die of earthly love, or of devotion.

Your memory and your senses will be nourishment for your creativity.

I am alone in possessing a key to this barbarous sideshow.