On perceiving in my glance. Please just Go. Home is never what you think it is. Meaning lies in meaning's absence. The mist Is always almost just about to lift.
Nothing is truer.
Dear, not even this Candle can explain its searing twist Of flame mounted on cool amethyst. In still-black stars our century will miss Seeing. Come, let's go home, wherever you think it is. Nothing is true, my dear. Not even this.