Let the space under the first storey be dark, let the water lap the stone posts, and vivid green slime glimmer upon them; let a boat be kept there.
Don't eat those nice green dollars your wife gives you for breakfast.
Mountain, mountain, mountain, marking time. Each nameless, wall beyond wall, wavering redefinition of horizon.
The threat of world's end is the old threat.
A blind man. I can stare at him ashamed, shameless. Or does he know it? No, he is in a great solitude. O, strange joy, to gaze my fill at a stranger's face. No, my thirst is greater than before.
Let me walk through the fields of paper touching with my wand dry stems and stunted butterflies.
In June the bush we call alder was heavy, listless, its leaves studded with galls, growing wherever we didn't want it.
In city, in suburb, in forest, no way to stretch out the arms - so if you would grow, go straight up or deep down.
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