Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends and we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was always just red.

Louis Welden Hawkins - Processione delle anime (1890)

For authentic poetry has nothing in common with “poetry”.

Narcissus, directed by Willard Maas & Ben Moore, 1958

Know then that the body is merely a garment

Time, time is a trick. How many birthdays did you have? One.
You had one day of birth. You continue to count birthday, your mind gives up, and your body deteriorates. This is the trick of time. 2023, uh - I don’t think so. We could be in the third millennium perhaps. Might be 1492. Who knows. I don’t want to see you in the purple rain…

There is no rest for the humble except in despising the great, whose only thought of the people is inspired by self-interest or sadism.

- Louis-Ferdinand Céline, Journey to the End of the Night