In the great glasshouses streaming with condensation, the children in mourning-dress beheld marvels.
The northern lights rise like a kiss to the sea
...as for me, I am intact; and I don't care.
Come from forever, and you will go everywhere.
I have stretched ropes from steeple to steeple; garlands from window to window; golden chains from star to star, and I dance.
It is wrong to say: I think. One ought to say: I am thought. I is someone else.