Not a shuddering of the earth, but a skyquake. Turner could have painted it, firmly lashed down. A single glove whirled past just now, many kilometers from its hand. I shall make my way along against the wind to that house on the other side of the field. I am flickering in the hurricane. I am being X-rayed, my skeleton is handing in its resignation. Panic grows while I cross, I founder, I founder and drown on dry land! What a burden it is, all I have to drag along suddenly, what a burden for the butterfly to take a barge in tow! Arrived at last. A final wrestling with the door. And inside now. Inside now. Behind the big pane of glass. What a strange and magnificent idea glass is---to be close without being struck...Outside a horde of transparent sprinters of gigantic shape is rushing by over the plateau of lava. But I no longer founder. I sit behind the glass. Still. My own portrait.

Inside the great Roman Church the tourists found themselves in the semi-darkness. Vaults beyond vaults Flickering candles. There, the voice of a faceless angel caught me - filled me vhispering into my very body: "Do not feel ashamed human, be proud! Inside you, vaults are opening and new vaults beyond these - forever. Never will it stop. Never shall it stop." Blinded by tears I stumbeled out on the sunny piazza together with with Mr and Mrs Jones, Master Tanaka and Signora Sabatini and inside all of them vaults beyond vaults were opening - forever.

Tired of all who come with words, words but no language I went to the snow-covered island. The wild does not have words. The unwritten pages spread themselves out in all directions! I come across the marks of roe-deer’s hooves in the snow.

Language but no words.