I read last night. I revisited my old friend and enemy Rimbaud to quiet the thoughts. There’s a lot to learn in his madness. About shadows and chaos and terror and escape. Reading his words is, at times, dizzying and most assuredly manic. Lots of flailing, mental flailing, to find the meaning and apply it to the crisis at hand. Anyway. It did the trick until the night released its grip on me as the sun came up. So there’s that, I guess. Still, indulging in Rimbaud is perhaps the most dangerous indulgence. At least it always was for me. There’s a power in his prose that has the capacity for both good and evil. Pretty impressive for a guy who managed to die a year younger than I’ve managed to live thus far. Definitely a love/hate relationship with young Arthur.

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