I am weak, I cry salt, and my eyes are abyssal; you are weak, you cry salt, and your eyes are darkness; you, and me, and them, and the world is terribly human, terribly monotonous. I will never bring to you the beauty of June fields, the smell of ripe apricots and wild berries. I will not be able to exhale the friskiness of the mountain stream on your tongue. I cannot give you the world above, I cannot light up the shadows. I don’t want to be the only receptacle of life in the midst of death. I am rotting like the others, you know.
