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| Where the only experience common is separation, one will only hear the amorphous language of separated life. |
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| There is no empty space, everything is inhabited. |
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| All motherfuckers have addresses. |
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| Let's disappear. |
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| What we inhabit inhabits us. |
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| What surrounds us constitutes us. |
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| I do not like to remember things any more. |
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| I like one little band of winds that blow |
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| In the ash trees here |
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| For we are quite alone Here 'mid the ash trees. |
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| Your songs? |
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| Moss words, lip words, words of slow streams. |
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| What times the swallow fills. Their echoes play upon each other in the twilight. |
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| I have no song. |
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| Free us, for we perish In this ever-flowing monotony. |
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| Blind eyes and shadows The broken sunlight |
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| In the slow float of differing light and deep, |
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| No! there is nothing! In the whole and all, Nothing that's quite your own. Yet this is you. |
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| Moss you are, |
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| Tree you are, |
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| You are violets with wind above them. |
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| A child- so high -you are, |
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| And all this is folly to the world. |
