Unlived, so much accident. Axioms of axles that snap. I said: what? But who was there but the essence, unappraisable, unformed, uninformable, forwarding nothing, a blob.
quina d'aqueixes sóc?
carallot:
- Eleuteri Qrim
- Under the speckled canopy / Where, along the autumnal whisper / Of fair weather, I walked, / The enkindled persimmon, / And then the flaming chestnut, / The imploded acorn, fell… /.../.../ My eyes, and nose, and ears, / And tongue, and skin, in joy / Praised such fragile perfection. .../.../
tot llegint-lo llença un crit i cau mig estabornit
