For what strikes us as beauty is nothing but all we can bear of a terror's beginning, and we admire it so, because it calmly disdains to destroy us.
Every angel strikes terror.
And thus I restrain myself and swallow the luring call with dark sobs. Not angels, not men, and the resourceful animals certainly notice that we're not at home, not reliably, in the interpreted world. There remains for us perhaps some tree on the slope, that we might see it again daily. O and the night, the night, when wind full of outer space gnaws at our faces -, for whom wouldn't night remain, longed for, gently disappointing, arduously waiting ahead for each individual heart. They cover up one another, alas, hiding their lot from themselves.