From Dreams and Projects
Behind me the following is chalked on the white wall: "White arrows
have shot down the white shadow." I am more and more obsessed with the
thought of participating in an unreal dreamworld.
The huge black knife into which he plunged looks like the black
gondolas of Venice. When the light of day starts raising a rumpus
around the corpse, the grimacing and claw-studded stars around the
dead man withdraw into their deserted lairs, blinking and yawning.
The tender questions of the dream-flakes drop into space.
We are wasting away and isolating ourselves more and more although
the Incomprehensible protects even the tiniest seed. Often we feel as
though the Incomprehensible were playing blindman's bluff with us. Why
did we tear the umbilical cord that tied us to the primeval depth. The
udders have run dry.