My Tongue Is Pierced With Glass.

The Mirror Is The Mother Dew, The Book Of Desiccated Twilights, Echo Become Flesh.

Just As The Light And Weightless Vegetation Of Saltpeter Floats Over The Old Walls Of Houses As Soon As The Owner Gets Careless, So The Literary Vocation Springs Up In You.

Everyone Understands The Pain That Accompanies Death, But Genuine Pain Doesn't Live In The Spirit, Nor In The Air, Nor In Our Lives, Nor On These Terraces Of Billowing Smoke. The Genuine Pain That Keeps Everything Awake Is A Tiny, Infinite Burn On The Innocent Eyes Of Other Systems.

The Wounds Were Burning Like Suns At Five In The Afternoon, And The Crowd Broke The Windows At Five In The Afternoon. Ah, That Fatal Five In The Afternoon! It Was Five By All The Clocks! It Was Five In The Shade Of The Afternoon!

Besides Black Art, There Is Only Automation And Mechanization.