In their vicinity, a body is fortified, then weakens and
disintegrates. For the poet is an agent of destruction, a virus, a disguised
disease and the gravest danger, though a wonderfully vague one, for our red
corpuscles. To live around her is to feel your blood run thin, to dream a
paradise of anemia, and to hear, in your veins the rustle of tears…
-E.M. Cioran
-E.M. Cioran
