A Series of Well Told Lies

A poet makes himself a visionary through a long, boundless, and systematized disorganization of all the senses. All forms of love, of suffering, of madness; he searches himself, he exhausts within himself all poisons, and preserves their quintessences. Unspeakable torment, where he will need the greatest faith, a superhuman strength, where he becomes all men the great invalid, the great criminal, the great accursed–and the Supreme Scientist! For he attains the unknown! Because he has cultivated his soul, already rich, more than anyone! He attains the unknown, and if, demented, he finally loses the understanding of his visions, he will at least have seen them! So what if he is destroyed in his ecstatic flight through things unheard of, unnameable: other horrible workers will come; they will begin at the horizons where the first one has fallen.

A devil who had unity would be a God.

Imagine trusting silence more than any thought you can come up with.

I’m not sure which is worse: intense feeling, or the absence of it.

jaimie foxx wears a trayvon martin shirt to the BET awards.

All of us are dust or sand, all of us are rain under rain.

And the days are not full enough And the nights are not full enough And life slips by like a field mouse Not shaking the grass