These woods are damp. I am invisible. Sincerely I believe in the Society of Blood, the Sick People and the Mountain. I am still listening to the sea, still repeating myself. Something has happened to my right hand. It won’t be polite to the authorities, it won’t make a fist in the air. Women always make an impression. You were tender beyond compare. The memory of the two of us does not console. Your face, a glowing coal. I am weary of being examined. I prophesy: a wilderness is essential to humankind, an indifferent wildness, full of varied shapes and colours, loves and sympathies, and incapable of guilt. Perhaps a violent storm overnight could transform this mute material, shape it, as I never could. Without the strictures of a plot the results are as we find them: the crash of a statue in the dark. I tried to remember where I was going and what it was you wanted me to do.
