My dreams loosen their individuality like bad teeth.
I'm talking about My interminable demurrals and my uncomfortable silences, About my false starts and my apologies, I'm talking about clearing my throat.
Why did I ever say I would do all these? They always turn out badly.
I have read French and Spanish fictions, More exactly, I've read two books with 'banging doors'.
The languages have taken precedence Not only before the books' meaning, But also before myself.
I was loosening myself by intoxication.
I am hungry, I don't know why The surrealists are always beyond interpretation.
I have nothing new to say.
When I was in Paris, I lived in a little hotel.
All the other rooms were occupied by Tibetan lamas.
They had come to Paris for their congress.
I still don't understand these reincarnated identities.
It's an unexpectedly gorgeous day, I live in a glass house.
I heard that it is a revolutionary virtue 'par excellence' to live in a glass house.
It is also an intoxication, But I badly need this moral exhibitionism.
I learned to take love seriously and to recognize myself in it.
I still search the 'profane illumination'.
I took a great interest in the epoch of Louis VII, I need that time of the 'courts of love', I have read about the Surrealist conception of love.
I still search a feeling like a secret bond, That determines the inner and the outer life.
I'm thinking of the dialectics of intoxication, I'm thinking of all the ecstasy being existent in this world And of the humiliating sobriety.
I heard that Breton was bound to a telepathic girl to make her chastity Become something like a transport.
I still don't understand Breton and this world that borders on tombs.
It's still an unexpectedly gorgeous day.
I perceive the revolutionary ideas that appear in the 'outmoded', In the old factory buildings, In the earliest photos, In the objects.
that have begun to be extinct, In the grand pianos, In the fashionable restaurants, when the vogue has begun to ebb from them.
In the poverty of the people being enslaved, in that enslaving object That can be suddenly transformed into a revolutionary nihilism.
In the first glance through a rain-blurred window, In the immense forces of the atmosphere.
In all the things mentioned here to the point of their explosion.
I'm still loosening myself by intoxication.
I think I have no chance to survive.
I'm still a dreamer, although my dreams loosen their individuality.