rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.
The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.
I went with my very being toward language.
How you die out in me: down to the last worn-out knot of breath you're there, with a splinter of life.
Death is a master from Germany.
We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'