Spinning Compass Comunications

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

He's frantic, overwhelmed, angry and consumed by the one out of two books that's hit too close to home in his entire life - and he tirelessly recites passages out Rimbaud's Season in Hell over and over again; books hit the walls, other books, the floor, even the window.

I turned silences and nights into words. What was unutterable, I wrote down. I made the whirling world stand still.

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

I'm intact, and I don't give a damn.

Something fragile breaks, shatters-

These poets here, you see, they are not of this world:let them live their strange life; let them be cold and hungry, let them run, love and sing: they are as rich as Jacques Coeur, all these silly children, for they have their souls full of rhymes, rhymes which laugh and cry, which make us laugh or cry: Let them live: God blesses all the merciful: and the world blesses the poets.

Je est un autre.

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