As I descended with the Dogs Blood Rising, so then I ascended to the Thunder Perfect Mind. Great grey bloodspeckled slabs of slate have fallen - this is my vision in the croaking jeering world: All idiotic faces and swollen hearts; in the papers the faces are not real, in the world the faces are not real - but in the Heart of the Hearts the Face is real. The dead die abroad, the crows fly, the wolves fly, and four poorly painted cardboard horsemen sheet over the back of the winds.
They are not legion - but closed. God walked on Earth in those days. Now, still, in my Hearts He walks still.
In the green fields far away there is a solid tree (mother and the Sign she makes). On the brokenhorse zodiac signs, yellow face passes (All the Rainbow her arms were...). All books piled up in dirty heaps, craterlike surface, pitted - Oh, bellissima - Largherana - if the seahorse were golden, colden... Talking back the bloody streams of God's OwnPain: "Why should we have compassion for others, when God Himself has had no pity... on others?" "Take back the bloodspeech", she said to me... (certain colours came from her body; she is alone!
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