Hearsay, the more you forgive, the more they will love you. But every time you forgive them, you fall in love with them less and less. And the time they love you more than any other is very much the moment you decide to love them the least.
Every poet is a fake eyewitness, peddler of make-believe hearsay, A conveyor of love he never knew in a city he never saw in a way to make you feel the passion as if it were true, He is an air-brusher of reality, Thus a proselytizer of the Absurd: That you can paint pictures with words; That you can travel by verbs; That you can conjure nouns by saying them; That you can lead several lives within your only one.
Every poet is a fake taxidermist, seller of second-hand stuffings of souls that were never alive
Every poet is a fake imperialist, would be explorer-***-colonizer of the terra incognita of your mind