The white narcissus.
What have we relinquished to find ourselves at last far from the melodious hills & left to the mercy of machines? There are certain hours when electric flowers flicker; out of the dark seed of the socket an icy silence blooms. Echo of out sleep, it sings: I, too, am sick of this life & suffer, as you do, these little deaths. Come, let us follow down stations of the night those elusive strangers who have settled for a lesser world's recollected light-- a single stone tunes the sky.