* * *

While the grass grows, loneliness dies. Look: They are dancing, all the old friends with their

doubtful prognoses, each with his skeleton, each with his inimitably crumpled-up longing. See this

molehill, and come closer to the sky. While the grass grows, the pictures tear themselves free of

the paper. See through this mirror with anything other than your own eyes. While the landscape

listens, the grass grows.