It is true, this great close contact.
Where am I?
Where is Marie?
What is she, even?
I do not know, I do not know.

I do not know where the wound in my flesh is, and how can I know the wound in my heart?
* * * * * * The clouds are crowning themselves with sheaves of stars.

It is an aviary of fire, a hell of silver and gold.

Planetary cataclysms send immense walls of light falling around me.

Phantasmal palaces of shrieking lightning, with arches of star-shells, appear and vanish amid forests of ghastly gleams.
While the bombardment is patching the sky with continents of flame, it is drawing still nearer.