February 17

To go to bed, and be incinerated, cast away our committal to flesh among the imaginary ashes, to describe something beyond the imagination. Old engravings of flowers and seasons, and rosy blossoming houses and shop windows and village after village, tomorrow, yes, tomorrow evening before the soul resigns, silence in these shadows between two parting dreams, in the dark and swaying dawn, very weak, weeping and waving across the body-strewn grounds, walls, air, and so on, even flowers, too fragile for the weight they bore. What lay inside, to be set aside for them for failing to die. Humiliation, a sharp, inexorable familiarity, a special isolation and deepening side by side with the living, the crowds of ambulatory skeletons, inhabitants of two worlds. Eyes burnt blue. Aeroplanes shining. Naked bodies at eye level with the blood of innocent women. Bent back, head sunk, mutilated by the period, defying parentage, the sacred duties of the citizen, the instrument of punishment. Filthy language, third and fourth generations, the same words come, scolding, nothing but fragments. None of it corresponds to our surroundings, distorting the secret, dangerous thickets. The astounded somewhat criminal luminescent figures. Something, burning.

Body doing its best. Opening and closing in the mud.