every man in the crowd has the same face. high places fall from the sky. The women squat on the platform timidly. They worry about the level of the sea; the sea was never a performer to me. It has always been a huge midwife over the opening waiting for an effigy of the world to be born. If these women bore love today, the crowd would tear the infants to pieces right after birth. early that morning, the boat was brought in through the waves; who knows how long it had been out there. do you think that the moment will happen when all is prepared — when the stage is set and the audience waits in its seats and the actresses are in their places? there is a delicate head in the personality that is surrounded in myth. Whose consciousness has established this interior? A billion memories are blockaded inside the tunnels of the ordinary world. Why attempt to swagger through the rubble and escape into a finer cosmos? why bring this head to birth? I left the crowd and the performers and went down to the beach. the waves were moving further up the sand, almost to the boat that had been left there. as one who falls asleep covered up with sleek hawks, I cannot feel you. I can only feel the immense outline of expression that surrounds your image. I am like a quiet field that somehow escapes the convulsions passing through the flocks that smother it. a nervous king awakes at the extremity of a wave. I hear screams in my head for he is a gigantic blossom fluttering in the abyss. still, I cannot feel you. in the boat is a marble torso. body without arms and legs; body without a head . . . one austere orchid in a dark tangle of seaweed. It is the world, a naked and defenseless extreme thing — silent voyager from the intimate deep. we rarely think of elemental life in this century. even women in childbed are isolated. Now, the ivy is grey and Christ, Himself is ornamental. broad immaculate seas cause dread and even basic flesh is superficial. you are an unborn child. Your hair is whispers. last night, I saw some kind of iridescent animal pass before me. Its large eyes were unformed, innocent and malleable, like yours. Still, I cannot feel you; perhaps, it is better you may never be born.