The Louvre Is A Morgue; You Go

Every Poem Is A Coat Of Arms. It Must Be Deciphered. How Much Blood, How Many Tears In Exchange For These Axes, These Muzzles, These Unicorns, These Torches, These Towers, These Martlets, These Seedlings Of Stars And These Fields Of Blue!

Keep Braiding One's Wavelengths Back Into Oneself. That Way They Gain All The More External Power And Surround Us With A Huge Affective And Protective Zone. Don't Talk About This. Never Talk About Our Secret Methods. If We Talk About Them, They Stop Working.

There Is Always A Period When A Man With A Beard Shaves It Off. This Period Does Not Last. He Returns Headlong To His Beard.

I Have Never Felt Any Connection With My Family. There Is—i Must Say Simply—something In Me That Is Not In My Family. That Was Not Visible In My Father Or Mother. I Do Not Know Its Origin.

Youth Is Certain What It Rejects Before It Knows What It Will Accept.