The night is false, sometimes the night is.
Sometimes I let myself be part of it, you see, I am a coward.
We let ourselves into the garden; how grandeur, how want. The lost soft supple abstract.
“To be away from home and yet to feel oneself everywhere at home; to see the world, to be at the center of the world, and yet to remain hidden from the world — impartial natures which the tongue can but clumsily define. The spectator is a prince who everywhere rejoices in his incognito.”
Charles Baudelaire