Death Is A Master From Germany.

Each Arrow You Shoot Off Carries Its Own Target Into The Decidedly Secret Tangle

In The Air, There Your Root Remains, There, In The Air

The Two Heart-grey Puddles: Two Mouthsfull Of Silence.

How You Die Out In Me: Down To The Last Worn-out Knot Of Breath You're There, With A Splinter Of Life.

Reality Is Not Simply There, It Does Not Simply Exist: It Must Be Sought Out And Won.