AND I, LOVE, AM A PATHALOGICAL LIAR

THERE IS NO ONE HERE, AND THERE IS SOMEONE.




i loved emptiness and neglect, burned orchards, run-down shops, tepid drinks. 
i dragged myself through reeking alleyways, closed my eyes and 
offered myself up to the sun, the god of fire.

i became a fabulous opera: i saw that all creatures are driven to happiness: 
action isn't life but a way of running down one's strength, a strain on the nerves. 
morality is a weakness of the brain. to every being, it seemed, 
several other lives were due.

- "a season in hell"  by arthur rimbaud