How Small These Rescued Tides

What’s The Good Of These Great Fragile Fits Of Enthusiasm, These Jaded Jumps Of Joys? We Know Nothing Anymore, But The Dead Stars; We Gaze At Their Faces; And We Gasp With Pleasure. Our Mouths Are Dry As The Lost Beaches, And Our Eyes Turn Aimlessly And Without Hope. Now All That Remain Are These Cafés Where We Meet To Drink These Cool Drinks, These Diluted Spirits, And The Tables Are Stickier Than The Pavements Where Our Shadows Of The Day Before Have Fallen.

No Rules Exist, And Examples Are Simply Life-savers Answering The Appeals Of Rules Making Vain Attempts To Exist.

The Mind Which Plunges Into Surrealism, Relives With Burning Excitement The Best Part Of Childhood.

Surrealism Does Not Allow Those Who Devote Themselves To It To Forsake It Whenever They Like. There Is Every Reason To Believe That It Acts On The Mind Very Much As Drugs Do; Like Drugs, It Creates A Certain State Of Need And Can Push Man To Frightful Revolts.

Perhaps I Am Doomed To Retrace My Steps Under The Illusion That I Am Exploring, Doomed To Try And Learn What I Should Simply Recognize, Learning A Mere Fraction Of What I Have Forgotten.