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eNOTHING has a mission: To bring poetry, arts and music to the streets via a growing artistic Twitter community.

POEM OF THE DAY "Less Time" by Andre Breton

Well, here you are.  Hangin out recently with eNothing, you've been on an enjoyable little cruise, this poetic journey through Whitman, Stevens, Poe, etc. and so on .  You've been with eNothing for a long time and you've usually enjoyed some good material, perhaps even a different perspective on some of the most traditional material.

You've been safe.  You've shared this material with others (thank you).

If you've been with eNothing all along, welcome back.  This is where we're from.  It's not safe here.  This is impressionism, surrealism.

This is where my mind resides.  As some of my friends have told me - "your mind is a dangerous place for me to be".  Well okay.  As you'll see in our next few posts, it may be "dangerous".  But it's a lot of fun...

And so here, from the founder of "surrealism" -- is "Less Time" by Andre Breton.  His poetry, as that from the likes of Paul Eluard and others, is to poetry what someone like Dali is to painting.

Follow eNothing for more surrealism (art and poetry) over the coming days.

Less Time  
by Andre Breton
Less time than it takes to say it, less tears than it takes to die; I've taken account of everything,
there you have it. I've made a census of the stones, they are as numerous as my fingers and some
others; I've distributed some pamphlets to the plants, but not all were willing to accept them. I've
kept company with music for a second only and now I no longer know what to think of suicide, for
if I ever want to part from myself, the exit is on this side and, I add mischievously, the entrance, the
re-entrance is on the other. You see what you still have to do. Hours, grief, I don't keep a
reasonable account of them; I'm alone, I look out of the window; there is no passerby, or rather no
one passes (underline passes). You don't know this man? It's Mr. Same. May I introduce Madam
Madam? And their children. Then I turn back on my steps, my steps turn back too, but I don't
know exactly what they turn back on. I consult a schedule; the names of the towns have been
replaced by the names of people who have been quite close to me. Shall I go to A, return to B,
change at X? Yes, of course I'll change at X. Provided I don't miss the connection with boredom!
There we are: boredom, beautiful parallels, ah! how beautiful the parallels are under God's

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