Then I became this stupid, trilling thing:
what I desired was to become obscene.
All the things I had loved up to then
fell away in the long struggle between winter and spring.
And then there was my body, inside of my soul.
It had different aspirations.
What form does it take without the soul?
Helpless in a hideous new way,
and as patient as a mountain. The soul is an innocent before it.
So when I say stupid, I simply offer meaninglessness.
And when I say trilling, I only mean a leaving off of past sound.
And when I am obscene, I am shorn of all expository passages.
And so on and so on, with things that are.