There Are Poets And There Are Grownups.

There's No Such Thing As Love; Only Proof Of Love.

Enough Of Clouds, Waves, Aquariums, Water-sprites And Nocturnal Scents; What We Need Is Music Of The Earth, Everyday Music..music One Can Live In Like A House.

The Runner Stopped Dead, Lost His Balance, Froze In One Of Those Violent Attitudes In Which The Photographers Petrify Living Reality.

If An Addict Who Has Been Completely Cured Starts Smoking Again He No Longer Experiences The Discomfort Of His First Addiction. There Exists, Therefore, Outside Alkaloids And Habit, A Sense For Opium, An Intangible Habit Which Lives On, Despite The Recasting Of The Organism. The Dead Drug Leaves A Ghost Behind. At Certain Hours It Haunts The House.

Poetry, Being Elegance Itself, Cannot Hope To Achieve Visibility... It Insists On Living Its Own Life.