I dwell in a grief

Do not leave the care of governing your heart to those tendernesses kindred to Autumn whence they draw its placid allure and its affable agony. The eye is precocious at scowling. Suffering knows not many words. Prefer burdenless sleep; you’ll dream of tomorrow on an easy bed. You’ll dream your house free of glass. You’re impatient to unite with the wind, the wind that runs through a year in one night. Let others sing the melodious incorporation, the flesh that personifies no more than the sorcery of the hourglass. You’ll condemn the gratitude that repeats itself. Later, you’ll be identified with some dissociated giant, lord of the impossible.

Nevertheless.

You’ve only augmented the weight of your night. You have returned to fishing walls, to summerless dog days. You are furious with your love at the center of an understanding which loses its head. Think of the perfect house that you will never see arise. When is the harvest out of the abyss? But you’ve put out the lion’s eyes. You believe you see beauty passing by on dark lavender...

Who has hoisted you, one more time, a little higher, and not convinced you?

There is no pure seat.

René Char