A part of the sky hidden from view is clearing.
I want to raise my arms and shout wild and strange things,
to speak to the lofty mysteries,
to arm a new and vast personality to the boundless expanses of empty matter.
Only my ghostly and imaginary friends,
only the conversations I have in my dreams,
are genuinely real and substantial,
and in them intelligence gleams like an image in a mirror.
It can even happen that I simultaneously
feel two things that can't logically coexist.
I don't know the gestures for any real act.
From here we can see more of the sky.
I'm the father,
mother,
sons,
cousins,
the maid and the maid's cousin,
all together and all at once,
thanks to my special talent
for simultaneously feeling various and sundry sensations
for simultaneously living the lives of various people—both on the outside,
seeing them,
and on the inside,
feeling them.
It seems to us that every thought is debased when expressed in words,
which transform the thought into the property of others,
making it understandable to anyone who can understand it.