The World Was Made In Order To

Poetry Is The Language Of A State Of Crisis.

O Naked Flower Of My Lips, You Lie! I Await A Thing Unknown Or Perhaps, Unaware Of The Mystery And Your Cries You Give, O Lips, The Supreme Tortured Moans Of A Childhood Groping Among Its Reveries To Sort Out Finally Its Cold Precious Stones.

Paint, Not The Thing But The Effect Which It Produces.

The World Was Made In Order To Result In A Beautiful Book.

Paintings Are Painted With Paint, Not With Ideas.