I am getting mixed up, getting nowhere, talking nonsense, and the more I move about and search in the text where I grope for gaps and absenses, for a glimmer of sense or memory, the more densely the language plays, the less likely it becomes that the secret shall ever be revealed.

I have as yet said nothing or, rather, said only the ambiguous, and in the end the logical thing would be to give up if I were laboring for a reader existing today, but as there is in the world not a single human who can speak my language; or, simply, not a single human who can speak; or, even more simply, not a single human; I must think only of myself, of that force that urges me to express myself.