Man is able to do what he is unable to imagine. His head trails a wake through the galaxy of the absurd.

How did writing come to me? Like bird’s down on my windowpane, in winter. Just then there rose in the heart a struggle of firebrands, which has, still now, not ended.

Each act is virgin, even the repeated ones.

What comes into the world to disturb nothing merits neither attention nor patience

A poem is the realization of love. . . .