You Feel On Your Lips A Kiss

...i Is Another. If The Brass Wakes The Trumpet, It’s Not Its Fault. That’s Obvious To Me: I Witness The Unfolding Of My Own Thought: I Watch It, I Hear It: I Make A Stroke With The Bow: The Symphony Begins In The Depths, Or Springs With A Bound Onto The Stage. If The Old Imbeciles Hadn’t Discovered Only The False Significance Of Self, We Wouldn’t Have To Now Sweep Away Those Millions Of Skeletons Which Have Been Piling Up The Products Of Their One-eyed Intellect Since Time Immemorial, And Claiming Themselves To Be Their Authors!

Je Est Un Autre. (i Is Someone Else).

Your Memory And Your Senses Will Be Nourishment For Your Creativity.

I Shed More Tears Than God Could Ever Have Required.

It Began As Research. I Wrote Of Silences, Of Nights, I Scribbled The Indescribable. I Tied Down The Vertigo.