As Rimbaud dragged a dead man along he thought, ‘Oh corpse, I have come rushing here only to be dragged along by the heels like you. What is this frenzy that drives me, this mania for battle and for love, when seen from the place where your staring eyes gaze and your flung-back head knocks over stones? It’s that think of, oh corpse, it’s that you make me think of: but does anything change? Nothing. No other days exist but these of ours before the tomb, both for us the living and for you the dead. Mayst be granted me not to waste them, not to waste anything of what am, of what I could be: to do deeds helpful to the Frankish cause:to embrace, to be embraced by, proud Adamant. I hope you spent your days no worse, oh corpse. Anyway to you the dice have already shown their numbers. For me, they are still whirling in the box. And I love my own disquiet, corpse, not your peace.