I hear the voice that his flesh breathed while yet he lived a little, when my ferocious hands fumbled in him for the skeleton we all have.

He fills the whole place.

He is too many things at once.

How can there be worlds in the world?
That established notion would destroy all.
This perfume of a tuberose is the breath of corruption.

On the ground, I see crows near me, like hens.
Myself! I think of myself, of all that I am.