Purple cloud covered his head so that he silently attacked his own blood and likeness, a lunar countenance; stonily sank away into emptiness, when in a broken mirror a dying youth, the sister, appeared; the night engulfed the cursed race.

A world without fairy tales and myths would be as drab as life without music.

Our silence is a black cavern.

I do not have easy days at home now and I drift between fear and helplessness in sunny rooms where it is unspeakably cold. Strange shudders of transformation, bodily experienced to the point of vulnerability, visions of mysteries until the certainty of having died, ecstasies to the point of stony petrifaction, and a continuation of dreaming sad dreams.

The guilt of newborns is immense.

Cold metal walks across my forehead, spiders search for my heart. It is a light that goes out in my mouth...

Frost and smoke. A white shirt of stars burns your worn-out shoulders, and God's vultures tear at your metallic heart.

Silently, God opens his golden eyes over the place of skulls.

Black frost. The ground is hard, the air tastes bitter. Your stars cluster in evil signs.

Earlier lives drift by on silver soles, and the shadows of the damned descend into these sighing waters.