I know I'm mad I've always been mad , i know i've been mad most of the time.

I know I'm mad I've always been mad , i know i've been mad most of the time.

Someone just died, but I’m alive and yet without a soul. I have nothing but a transparent body within which transparent doves fling themselves upon a transparent dagger held by a transparent hand. I see effort in all its beauty, real effort that cannot be measured by anything, just before the appearance of the last star. The body I inhabit like a hut and on lease detests the soul that I used to have and that stays afloat in the distance. The time has come to be done with this proverbial duality that has been blamed on me so much. Gone is the time when the turbulence in lightless and ringless eyes welled up from pools of color. There is neither red nor blue any longer. The unanimous red-blue fades out in turn like a robin refbreast in the hedges of neglect. Someone just dies--neither I nor you exactly, nor they, but all of us, except for me who survives in many ways: for instance, I’m still cold. Enough of that. Fire! Fire! Or stones for me to cleave, or birds for me to follow, or corsets for me to lace tightly around dead women’s waists, and so to make them come back to life and love me with their tiring hair and their chastened look! Fire, so we don’t die for brandied plums, fire so the Italian straw hat won’t be just a play! Hello, lawn! Hello, rain! I’m the unreal breath of this garden. The black crown set on my head is a cry of migrating crows because until now there were only those buried alive, just a few of them, and now I’m the first of the aired dead. But I have a body not to be done away with, to compel reptiles to admire me. Bloody hands, mistletoe eyes, a mouth of dead leaves and glass (the dead leaves stir underneath the glass; they aren’t as red as you might think when indifference lays bare its voracious techniqes), hands to gather you, miniscule thyme of my dreams, rosemary of my extreme pallor. I have no more shadow either. Ah, my shadow, dear shadow. I have to write a long letter to that now lost shadow. I’ll begin by: My dear shadow. Shadow, my dearest. You see. There is no more sun. There is but one tropic out of two. No more than one man out of a thousand. No more than one woman out of the absence of thought which characterizes in pure black this damned age. That woman holds a bouquet of everlastings in the shape of my blood.


"In a mad world, only the mad are sane."