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    Tonight, in dreams, I did not exist. I am not cold to the pleasurable contemplation of solipsism - yet, the reverse? There are the Virgils, the Flauberts, the Wildes and Coleridges - there simply was no I. I was not an obscure fold in the fabric, a vibration of the threads of which the Universe is constituted. I was a harmonic, an interruption. I was, simply, not. I felt, in that moment, closer to Rimbaud than I ever have in reading his verse. This is my solitary delight in an otherwise sterile evening. I am aware of the pain in my throat - the empiricists and the idealists, the Carthaginians and the Romans, the virus and the blood? There is an awareness in their motions, unconscious, that they are at play for the sake of some mute Center. There is also a knowledge, implicit in the organism, that this farce is folly, for It cannot condescend to laugh.

    Rhetoric - what value, this? To order my impressions, to slide into accord with Logos? I cannot say, but I am compelled no less. Meanings contrived or derived, so many sweet sophistries - I would prefer, always,  an empty sapphic to a swollen treatise. I have more interest in the toil of the Bacchanate, so despised, than the motives of hand and heart that compelled Kant. Truths - trooths, he-he! Swinburne is a maligned saint - he was an aesthete, and suffers in posterity. Ideas are often beautiful, but are almost always incidental. Beauty - the aim, always the aim. Dandies before didactics, de Quincey before Descartes, beauty before utility.