In sparser gusts of wind metaphors sough through the mind, spinning as on the much-frequented boulevards of a great park.
Treacherous individuality suffices only for a fingerprint.
Metaphors always the same, but constantly born anew like a mind alive. Language given at birth, never our own, never others', visits us just as we ourselves are visitors here, two short-term loans. Then you say what's being said. Language, the possession of secrets. But I'll have to go out and get some filter papers so that I'm not left empty-handed.