"My little, beloved madwoman was feeding me dinner, and through the open window in the dining room I was contemplating the moving architectures that God makes out of vapors, the marvelous constructions of the impalpable. And I said, in the midst of my contemplation: "-- All of these phantasmagoria are almost as beautiful as the eyes of my beautiful beloved, the little, monstrous madwoman with green eyes."

And suddenly I received a violent punch in the back, and I heard a hoarse and charming voice, a hysterical voice, made husky by hard liquor, the voice of my dear beloved, saying: "-- When are you going to eat your soup, filthy beast of a cloud salesman?"

- Baudelaire

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