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

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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.

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In the morning I had a look so lost, a face so dead, that perhaps those whom I met did not see me.

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I believe I am in Hell, therefore I am.

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Je est un autre.

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Come from forever, and you will go everywhere.

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But, truly, I have wept too much! The Dawns are heartbreaking. Every moon is atrocious and every sun bitter.

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A thousand Dreams within me softly burn

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Idle youth, enslaved to everything; by being too sensitive I have wasted my life.

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But the problem is to make the soul into a monster

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