|I was reading tonight about Baudelaire. And the writer of the book I was reading was somehow épaté with the Fleurs du Mal. It has been a while since I re-read the Fleurs du Mal. From what I remember, they were not so épatants. And it seems to me that Baudelaire was constricted within a very close sensual circle. Last night, suddenly; or last Wednesday; and so many other times I experienced, and acted upon, and imagined, and silently fashioned stranger pleasures yet.