Like our sun, the memory the master's desire for knowledge. The exclusive modern thing has played itself out. Inside the body of the letter every social sphere shaken. They don't worship properly, they aren't Christian, they're different. The formulation can be written: the illusion of progress. I remember it seemed that the theatrical side of your work had gotten too lucky. Correct the tendency to fixate. She started to dance. Born in the ground de-linking the imaginary. And their sounds were like sleepwalking repetitions. It is salt, butter. It is first of all as poets, how they guide me. The window the bird the family the museum. Much of the bridge was intended to confront.

outside the symbols hung silent. the thing that is both known and unknown. but we remain fantastic children. the sun itself: dying. thoughts regarding the cock. the history in education. i still regret that wasted night. at the dawn of modernity. worshipping outdated gods. instituting tradition by rot. fondling in the back of a honda. never so far from home. you must touch me to touch me. we go toward the best known unknown thing.