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.
“I would like to write a Book which would drive men mad, which would be like an open door leading them where they would never have consented to go, in short, a door that opens onto reality.”
Antonin Artaud
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