As the arrow endures the string, and in the gathering momentum becomes more than itself. Because to stay is to be nowhere.

Lord, it is time. The summer was very big. Lay thy shadow on the sundials, and on the meadows let the winds go loose. Command the last fruits that they shall be full; give them another two more southerly days, press them on to fulfillment and drive the last sweetiness into the heavenly wine.

I am a house gutted by fire where only the guilty sometimes sleep before the punishment that devours them hounds them out in the open.

But because truly being here is so much; because everything here apparently needs us, this fleeting world, which in some strange way keeps calling to us. Us, the most fleeting of all.

Across the moment, aeons speak with aeons. More than we experienced has gone by.

For our part, when we feel, we evaporate; ah, we breathe ourselves out and away; with each new heartfire we give off a fainter scent. True, someone may tell us: you're in my blood, this room, Spring itself is filled with you . . . To what end? He can't hold us, we vanish within him and around him.

It is good to say it aloud: 'Nothing has happened.' Once again: 'Nothing has happened.' Does that help?"