All the suns labor to kindle your flame and a microbe puts it out.
More grievous than tears is the sight of them.
Night is a world lit by itself.
When the superficial wearies me, it wearies me so much that I need an abyss in order to rest.
I know what I have given you, I do not know what you have received.
You can owe nothing, if you give back its light to the sun.