Words Have Finished Flirting. Now They Are

Surrealism, N. Pure Psychic Automatism, By Which It Is Intended To Express, Whether Verbally Or In Writing, Or In Any Other Way, The Real Process Of Thought. Thought's Dictation, Free From Any Control By The Reason, Independent Of Any Aesthetic Or Moral Preoccupation.

The Important Thing Is That Man Is Lost In Time, In The Moment That Immediately Precedes Him - Which Only Attests, By Reflection, To The Fact That He Is Lost In The Moment That Follows

Let Us Not Mince Words: The Marvelous Is Always Beautiful, Anything Marvelous Is Beautiful, In Fact Only The Marvelous Is Beautiful.

Past And Future Monopolize The Poet’s Sensory And Intellectual Faculties, Detached From The Immediate Spectacle. These Two Philtres Become Utterly Clear The Moment One Stops Being Hypnotized By The Cloudy Precipitate Constituted By The World Of Today.

Leave Everything. Leave Dada. Leave Your Wife. Leave Your Mistress. Leave Your Hopes And Fears. Leave Your Children In The Woods. Leave The Substance For The Shadow. Leave Your Easy Life, Leave What You Are Given For The Future. Set Off On The Roads.