after twenty years, my life is still embryonic: i guess it pertains to the self-same me to be tragic and comic. by this age, Rimbaud had already renounced poetry, leaving in fury shattered instruments of alchemy and sublime scrolls from hell, scrawled impeccably in drug-infused-blood and divine protest, depicting beatific visions of love, infinite aching bodies and disordered senses; by this age, he had already heeded the call of adventure, known destitute poverty and absolute ecstasy, triviality and magnificence, and was bound for an obscure exploration, marriage, trading in slaves and was past half way to a tedious death. but what have i seen? and what is this?—merde! after twenty years, my life is still embryonic: i guess it pertains to the self-same me to be tragic and comic.