First impressions are always unreliable.

I miss you deeply, unfathomably, senselessly, terribly.

From a certain point onward there is no longer any turning back. That is the point that must be reached.

The truth is always an abyss. One must — as in a swimming pool — dare to dive from the quivering springboard of trivial everyday experience and sink into the depths, in order to later rise again — laughing and fighting for breath — to the now doubly illuminated surface of things.

Nothing, you know, gives the body greater satisfaction than ordering people about, or at least believing in one's ability to do so.

People who walk across dark bridges, past saints, with dim, small lights. Clouds which move across gray skies past churches with towers darkened in the dusk. One who leans against granite railing gazing into the evening waters, His hands resting on old stones.

That's how it will be, except that in reality, both today and later, one will stand there with a palpable body and a real head, a real forehead, that is, for smiting on with one's hand.