I promise I am not dead inside, heart opening.
The enemy. Sweep blacks, now and then blazed with lighting and sun; my garden, destroyed by storm and rain, only bears meager fruits of late gold and red. So I stand now in the autumn of ideas, the spade and the rake´s toil begins; the tide wells up and gathers into lakes in deep caves that are like tombs. And do I know whether the young blossom ever sucks the miracle that nourishes the new spring from such soil without strength and goodness? O torment! O torment! Time devours my life, the eternal enemy that consumes our hearts and grows great with the blood we give him. This Black Flame.
