I've lost any pretension to be loved. Those who can’t help but be loved are the ones who know the name of plants, those who know poems by heart and other who get lost in their way. My self-loss manifests through grief and makes the world such a meagre place that prevents me from losing myself. I am a being closest to matter, in a way in which I see no difference between me and the things out in the world, and I inhabit the poem like a caterpillar eating the heart of time.
