That the hands of the sisters Death and Night incessantly softly wash again and ever again, this soiled world.

Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my body as I pass, Be not afraid of my body.

My words itch at your ears till you understand them

All is procession; the universe is a procession with measured and beautiful motion.

Resist much, obey little.

I dote on myself. There is a lot of me and all so luscious.

I think it is lost.....but nothing is ever lost nor can be lost .