I look at the morsel of mortality.

My thoughts, and I cannot help them, are attracted by the horizontal body that the world bruises; they go into the ground with it and mold a shape for it.
Its face--what is the look which rots crushed in the dark depth of the earth at the top of these remains?
Ah, one catches sight of what there is under the battlefields! Everywhere in the spacious wall there are limbs, and black and muddy gestures.

It is a sepulchral sculptor's great sketch-model, a bas-relief in clay that stands haughtily before our eyes.

It is the portal of the earth's interior; yes, it is the gate of hell.
* * * * * * In order to get here, I slept as I marched; and now I have an illusion that I am hidden in this little cave, cooped up against the curve of the roof.

I am no more than this gentle cry of the flesh--Sleep! As I begin to doze and people myself with dreams, a man comes in.