Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.

rush of pine scent (once upon a time), the unlicensed conviction there ought to be another way of saying this.

We are told that when Hölderlin went 'mad,' he constantly repeated, 'Nothing is happening to me, nothing is happening to me.'

I went with my very being toward language.

Each arrow you shoot off carries its own target into the decidedly secret tangle

The heart hid still in the dark, hard as the Philosophers Stone.

Black milk of daybreak we drink it at sundown.