Go to the beach and you’ll see. God has taken his time carving out this light. He must have wanted to show us the most glorious things.
He must have wanted to blind us.
To all the girls who have ever stepped barefoot in the sand, goodbye.
You endured the kneading pressure that tickled the soles of your feet, although sharper stones might have scraped off flesh, might have pierced tenaciously like white phosphorus grenades—bursting brilliantly in the air.
death
death
death
Our bodies catch fire and glow. Our skin burns red and shrinks. The most precious light on earth is the tiniest stone. We’ll grow brighter and brighter, we believe, as our flesh recedes.
Like that submarine headed to the bottom of the ocean, toward the Titanic, we’ll end up crumpled—no lifeboats will come for us plebians.
It is often through a piercing sword that death finds us. How strong and beautiful it is, the light reflected by the blade.
How far will they stretch, those death cries that seem to tear through the very air?
I ponder the sense of speed conveyed by the word light year. If we could walk to the moon without dying, we would run away.
We mustn’t forget that this vast galaxy is made up of miniscule lights.
When our skeletons get smaller and our bodies thinner,
when we’ve become so tiny that we can no longer be broken down,
when no-one knows that we are the lights floating in the air,
I’ll build you a brightly shining grave, gather the finely crushed sand.
So that other planets’ lifeforms can find you from afar.
I would love for you imperfect beings to reach Heaven, which overflows with those who have outstayed their welcome.
If you’re the kind of girl who can easily imagine a vase falling when you look up at a high-rise building—you’ll understand what I mean right away.
