I’m I.
I’ll disappear in the fog as a foreigner to all life,
as a human island detached from the dream of the sea,
as a uselessly existing ship that oats on the surface of everything.
Through a passive association of ideas,
I start thinking about the men whose consciousness of that space and
time was so analytically and intuitively acute that it lost touch with the world.
I reduced my contact with others to a minimum.
The best and profoundest conversations,
and the least morally instructive ones,
are those that novelists have between two characters from one of their books.
Let us remain eternally like a male figure in one
stained-glass window opposite a female figure in another stained-glass window.
Foreign to us,
our steps were united,
for they went in unison over the crackling softness
of the yellow and half-green leaves that matted the ground’s unevenness.
I want to be refreshed,
to live,
and I lean my neck out to life as to an enormous yoke.
Instants.
In all of my dreams you appear,
in dream form,
or you accompany me as a false reality.