I look at my thirty-six poems. They came out, that is for sure. Months of hard work, but they came out. Then I notice the immense contrast between the gusts that I simply allowed to manifest. The moralism I dislike is an obligatory component in my lines—I will never silence it, I will never neutralize a dimension of myself… Then, the psychology of despair, the ruptures of the mind inserted in a body contrary to action, perplexed by existence. And finally, cynicism, mockery, the expression of someone incapable of not consciously shooting himself into ridicule. Let us follow with the ultimate…
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