I've never done anything but dream. That, and that only, has always been the meaning of my life. I've never had any other real concern than my inner life. The greatest sorrows of my existence have faded since I was able, opening the window that gives on myself, to forget me by contemplating its perpetual movement.
I never wanted to be nothing but a dreamer. If I was told to live, I barely listened. I've always belonged to what's not where I am, and what I could never be. Everything that is not me - so vile that it may be - has always had poetry in my eyes. I've never loved anything. I never wanted what I couldn't even imagine. I've never asked for life just to touch me, but I don't want to feel it. I never asked for love to be a distant dream.
