I am terrified by this dark thing that sleeps in me. All day I feel its soft, feathery turnings, its malignity. Clouds pass and disperse. Are those the faces of love, those pale irretrievables? Is it for such I agitate my heart? I am incapable of more knowledge. What is this, this face so murderous in its strangle of branches? Its snaky acids kiss. It petrifies the will. These are the isolate, slow faults that kill, that kill, that kill.