In it many colors are stored. While my body s in prison, heart cells alone have multiplied. My bones are merely bored with all this waiting around. But the heart, this child of myself that resides in the flesh, this ultimate signature of the me, the start of my blindness and sleep, builds a death cr che. The figures are placed at the grave of my bones.
All figures knowing it is the other death they came for.
Each figure standing alone. The heart burst with love and lost its breath. This little town, this little country is real and thus it is so of the post and the cup and thus of the violent heart. The zeal of my house doth eat me up.