« It sometimes seems to me that my blood flows in torrents,
Like a fountain with rhythmic sobs.
I hear it flowing with a long murmur,
But I feel in vain to find the wound.
Through the city, as through an enclosed field,
It goes, transforming the cobblestones into islands,
Quenching the thirst of every creature,
And everywhere coloring nature red.
I have often asked captious wines
To lull for a day the terror that undermines me;
Wine makes the eye clearer and the ear sharper!
I have sought in love a forgetful sleep;
But love is for me only a mattress of needles
Made to give drink to these cruel girls! » (Charles Baudelaire)