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.
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