Where the only experience common is separation,
one will only hear the amorphous language of separated life.
There is no empty space, everything is inhabited.

All motherfuckers have addresses.

Let's disappear.

What we inhabit inhabits us.

What surrounds us constitutes us.
I do not like to remember things any more.

I like one little band of winds that blow
In the ash trees here

For we are quite alone
Here 'mid the ash trees.
Your songs?

Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams.
What times the swallow fills.
Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight.
I have no song.
Free us, for we perish
In this ever-flowing monotony.
Blind eyes and shadows
The broken sunlight
In the slow float of differing light and deep,
No! there is nothing! In the whole and all,
Nothing that's quite your own.
Yet this is you.
Moss you are,
Tree you are,
You are violets with wind above them.
A child- so high -you are,
And all this is folly to the world.