idea. form. essence, stuck in quagmire of darkness. a 
part of light, stained with mud, covered with herpes of 
the nightmare. in the well of truth that black star finds 
its reflection, the star, which sometimes arises over the 
ruins of thought. already on the brink of death, at the 
altar of perished days the past lighted its memories. 
from the pit, where now there is rotting and collapse, 
you are drawing with your weak-witted hands. deserted 
black world, the disk of sun chocked behind the reddened 
edge.