Comte de Lautréamont█

From the feverish solitude of Montevideo to the gaslit shadows of Paris, I spun language into a storm, birthing Maldoror from the womb of the abyss.

Ask me of poetic cruelty and angelic irony, of the beautiful as chance meeting on a dissecting table, of the delirium only a twenty-four-year life can distill.

Even in death, my words coil like serpents in the minds of dreamers and rebels.