And I walked, I walked through the light air; I moved with the morning.
I am overwhelmed by the beautiful disorder of poetry, the eternal virginity of words.
In the kingdom of bang and blab.
The fields stretch out in long unbroken rows. We walk aware of what is far and close. Here distance is familiar as a friend. The feud we kept with space comes to an end.
Should we say the self, once perceived, becomes the soul?
What's important? That which is dug out of books, or out of the guts?