We're all going to die,
all of us, what a circus! That alone should make us love each other, but it doesn't.
We are terrorized and flattered by trivialities, we are eaten up by nothing.
"Still now, I send letters into space hoping that some mailman somewhere will track you down and recognize you from the descriptions in my poems, that he will place the stack of them in your hands and tell you ‘There is a girl who still writes you…she doesn’t know how not to.’"
