To lie awake at night trying to "understand" the stars. A desire formulated as yet in stars and now the word, desire. While my restless neighbour, Death paces back and forth behind his window.

To gossip with my neighbour through the fence, loosening thatch, ligament, bone, memory, ideology, morality.

To scrupulously browse. Graze. Greener grasses always yonder, or at its border.

To feel an exquisite touch of the subtle body one morning by a lake along a stretch of katabasis, those dark bodies of hate, meanness and shrivelling withdrawal. Standing mist-ghosts in procession hurrying, though they drift, while the planet's shadow behind us, over giant pine-forests, draws back, the autumn hills across the lake then luminous with gold inviting the details of the green forest forward. Then, the Happy Man drinking black wild coffee, his lover Jenny Spring doing a crossword puzzle. Particular words in a book revealed perhaps like Portuguese Men 'O War in a lake illuminated to a depth-resonance, dragging their etymologies like ganglia.