With a great show of reality– there are two poets on a train that undertake fifty amorous theses. They are unaware of the crimes they are committing.
With their pencils, every little detail, which seems to them appropriate, is included. They rejoiced in the never–ceasing novelty of their thoughts.
The lover imagined and the love object…the sought after perfections of being in a state of lack..
[Musk] Her body revolve around– seems connected to certain gravities; of expectations, juxtapositions and sequences.
The fires of the body stoked by desire’s wish to witness movement imagined since that first encounter, waiting endlessly for the shop keeper.
Their theses were greeted with great applause. We are unsure of the means they employed, but powerful were their means, for all those who read their words — swooned
Christ on their lips, hazarding their souls– never any strange illusions of salvation, but accordingly I will descend to particulars. Of a melancholy that extends itself to all– I speak of small animals and of dark anatomies. There is a trepidation perceived in them all– which is especially perceived from a high hill. It is true that there is a natural antipathy between the singular and the plural. It is also true that if you put a bird in a cage it will die from asphyxiation. But who is unaware of these common horrors? I will speak of others.
The poets are most subject to this malady. From the violence of melancholy, they run mad and away. I could relate many stories of poets that have died from grief, but they are common in every province and every body politic; their particular symptoms are as follows:
Uncivil, but obedient to the effect of expectation – with their tears, vows, and all their rhetoric, they are the ones who languish in many fair built and populous cities, and are made mute by the closing of a door.
Or is it that there are so many that they have become ‘a commonwealth of disease.’?