Panic blooms, in the marrow, where whispers harry thorns like arrows – fishes seethe in jagged glass. Time and silence stir, wrapped in the breath of dusk, clutching chants in its faded fabric; shadows shimmy, honey-laced upliftment, and rustle the frozen ground. O, dial the sun! Fill the air with pistils exploding!
- Elsa von Freytag-Loringhoven