Death, Lonely Death, Beneath The Withered Leaves.

The Moon Carries The Masks Of Meningitis Into Bedrooms, Fills The Wombs Of Pregnant Women With Cold Water And, As Soon As I'm Not Careful, Throws Handfuls Of Grass On My Shoulders.

But Hurry, Let's Entwine Ourselves As One, Our Mouth Broken, Our Soul Bitten By Love, So Time Discovers Us Safely Destroyed.

In The Garden I Will Die. In The Rosebush They Will Kill Me.

The One Thing Life Has Taught Me Is That Most People Spend Their Lives Bottled Up Inside Their Houses Doing The Things They Hate.

I'll Always Be Happy If They'd Leave Me Alone In That Delightful And Unknown Furthest Corner, Apart From Struggles, Putrefactions And Nonsense; The Ultimate Corner Of Sugar And Toast, Where The Mermaids Catch The Branches Of The Willows And The Heart Opens To A Flute's Sharpness.