"The brightest star on a cloudless night Some kind of miracle, almost empty sky... Just as the bite of the blade wakes the absent mind There's time to dream and there's time to open your eyes"

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I am imbued with the notion that a Muse is necessarily a dead woman, inaccessible or absent; that a poetic structure - like the canon, which is only a hole surrounded by steel - can be based only on what one does not have; and that ultimately one can write only to fill a void or at the least to situate, in relation to the most lucid part of ourselves, the place where this incommensurable abyss yawns within us.

— Michel Leiris